


galaxies, within you

by skiecas



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, Living Together, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, just so much pining, makki and mattsun are the mvps of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skiecas/pseuds/skiecas
Summary: Hajime and Tooru move in together at the start of university. Too bad they’re stuck with the two gremlins that haunt their apartment.





	galaxies, within you

**Author's Note:**

> soundtrack for this fic: [young dumb & broke](https://youtu.be/IPfJnp1guPc) by khalid.  
> please listen!

 

  _yeah, we’re just young, dumb, and broke_  
_but we’ve still got love to give_

 

 

It begins on Hajime’s birthday. Hanamaki and Matsukawa cross the threshold of his new apartment at exactly seven p.m. on the dot, bringing with them a suspicious brown paper bag that could have contained pastries or a rubber snake or even a _real_ snake—there was no telling with those two. Hajime accepts it gingerly as they march in with a considerable amount of swank, making the place their own as if they had actually been _invited_ and hadn’t just popped up at the doorstep without so much as a word in advance.

Matsukawa whistles quietly as he checks out the high ceiling and lush carpet. “Must be nice having a rich roommate with rich parents.”

“Must be nice not to have to duck going through your front door,” Hanamaki adds. “Is your roommate here, by the way? I want to thank him personally for footing our new hangout spot.”

“Stop calling me ‘roommate!’”

Tooru emerges from behind a freshly cream-painted door that could only have been a bathroom, not exactly looking his Sunday best; he’s wrapped up in a towel robe that only comes halfway down his thighs, hairy legs protruding from the hem, and his face is covered in some green gunk that smells fruity and avocado-like. Various pins tangled into his rarely unstyled hair keep his bangs from his face.

“Dang. Might I just say, Oikawa, you would make an _ugly_ woman.”

Hajime’s bark-like laugh drowns out Tooru’s affronted scoff. “Even a caterpillar will look hideous before it sheds its cocoon to emerge as a beautiful butterfly.”

Matsukawa eyes him warily. “Whatever you do, _don’t_ shed that robe. My eyes might just start to bleed.”

By this point Hajime’s shut the door and planted himself on the couch, still holding on to the paper bag as if it might explode if he releases it from his grip. Tooru makes a dramatic show of huffily plopping down on the seat beside him, legs crossed, and all three boys exchange glances and instinctively know they’re thinking the same thing: _Is he wearing anything under that robe?_ They’re all too afraid to ask.

“How are you two even here?” Tooru snaps. “I don’t remember giving you the address.”

“We have our ways,” Matsukawa teases.

“And phones. And Instagram accounts. And you _on_ those Instagram accounts.” It takes Hanamaki but a few seconds to pull up one of Tooru’s most recent posts, featuring himself looking pristine-perfect of course, and Hajime behind him lugging two boxes up a flight of stairs. _Unpacking with my pack mule lol,_ reads the caption, followed by at least fifty heart emojis and fifty flexing-arm emojis. He has the location tagged. “Lo and behold,” Hanamaki drawls.

“You are such a dumbass,” Hajime says, while Tooru repeatedly smacks himself on the forehead for his mistake. “Always knew your dumb social media accounts would be your downfall.”

“Vanity ‘tis but a sin.”

“Shut up, _shut up,"_ Tooru groans. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you two knowing where our apartment is.”

“We know you’re only cruel because you’re scared of how much you love us.” Matsukawa settles at one end of the coffee table, pulling off his cap and mussing up his hair at the fringe.

“We could either be here now, or we could be here a week from now, when you start whining about how lonely you are and how much you miss us.”

Tooru blows out a puff of air. “I don’t get lonely. I have my lovely fans. And do you even know how many girls I’ve already dated since moving in? Probably more than both of you ever have combined. Probably more girls who have even _looked_ at you two combined.”

Hajime snorts. “And where was I when that parade of girls came through?”

“You were… in class.”

“You have class when I have class.”

_“Iwa-chan, whose side are you on?!”_

“Definitely not on the guy’s who’s sitting here with his junk on the couch. On our _communal_ couch.”

“Iwa-chan, how _lewd._ How would you know? _Ohh?_ Do you _wish_ I wasn’t wearing anything under this robe?”

Hajime sputters, dash of red splashing across his cheeks, and threatens to punch him where the sun doesn’t shine. But Tooru is already lifting one fold of his robe and offering Hajime a quick little peek if he’s really _that_ sex-deprived, _anything for my best friend,_ and Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchange pointed looks as their existence seems to fade into the background.

“We probably could have dropped in two weeks ago and moved into the kitchen, and they wouldn’t even have noticed,” Hanamaki notes, dryly.

“Made a pillow fort in front of the fridge and hung our laundry up on the dishwasher, and they’d be too busy sucking face to even realize,” Matsukawa adds, nodding along.

“Cut it out,” Hajime growls, having heard everything. He’s even redder now, while Tooru nurses a growing lump on his head. “As if I would, with this jackass. That mouth of his has been all over town—disgusting. Why’re you two here anyway?” He’s exceptionally cranky.

“Excuse me? When have we ever missed your birthday? When have _we,_ your bestest friends, the greatest teammates to exist, not celebrated the day you were detached from the womb and surgically attached to Oikawa’s hip?”

“I was born after Iwa-chan,” Tooru reminds them haughtily.

Hanamaki waves an airy hand. “Oh, were you? Sorry, your birthday is just _so_ irrelevant on my social calendar. Right behind the anniversary of my grandfather finally getting that funky mole on his back removed. That one’s in two weeks.”

_“Rude!”_

Tooru’s screech echoes throughout the apartment, and he’s probably red in the face except it’s impossible to tell behind that green mask he’s got smeared all over. At least Hajime’s grinning again, looking both amused and relieved all at once that he now had backup to help him keep Tooru in his place. The guy was a saint, with all the work he did reigning in his best friend’s flighty personality. It reminds Matsukawa why they’re here—to celebrate him.

“Open your present,” he says, nudging Hajime’s ankle.

Even Tooru looks intrigued, leaning in to peer over Hajime’s shoulder as he cautiously unfurls the bag and pries apart the lip, as if he’s still expecting a snake to jump out and attack him. He frowns at what he actually sees, then carefully tips the contents out onto the coffee table. A dozen or so heads of roses spill out. Not even full roses, but just the very tops of them, which had obviously been snipped rather jaggedly and were already looking a little frail.

Tooru’s face is nothing less than horrified. “That’s creepy as hell, you two.”

“Aren’t they _beautiful?_ We saw them on the way home yesterday, and luckily Issei had a letter opener with him so we got to work. Thought you’d appreciate seeing all the beauty the world has to offer. You can keep the paper bag, too. We just found it in some trash bin while we were carrying the roses home.”

Hajime bursts into laughter, just as Tooru squawks indignantly and flicks the bag off their couch. “You two need to get your heads checked, _oh my god.”_

“I like them,” Hajime declares, setting off a bland round of cheers from the two boys. “All Oikawa got me was some dumb brand new sports bag. And food poisoning too, probably, since he tried to make breakfast this morning. I’m just waiting for it to hit me.”

“Charming,” Matsukawa drawls.

“You two are corrupting Iwa-chan’s brain,” Tooru accuses. “He’s gonna turn out _weird_ like both of you, and it’s gonna totally ruin our dynamic. He’s supposed to be the straight man so _I_ can be the lovable and quirky one!”

“I can’t believe Oikawa just used the words ‘I’ and ‘lovable’ in the same sentence.”

“No self-awareness at all.”

“ _He’s_ the one who needs to get his head checked.”

“Iwa-chan, don’t _join in!”_

Another round of laughter seems to almost shake the apartment, and even if Tooru is spluttering nonsense in defense of himself, there’s something like joy radiating within the very air, because the four are together again and for a while there it had seemed like it would never be possible anymore. It’s good to be in the same place, on the same team, in the same _room_ —celebrating birthdays together like the past three years.

Hajime looks up curiously when the doorbell suddenly rings. “Who’s that?”

Hanamaki jumps to his feet, palms rubbing together in anticipation. _“That_ is your real present.”

Tooru yelps and hurries to cover his green face and run into the bathroom, thinking they’ve got company. But when Hanamaki returns it’s just with steaming cartons of food in either hand, a receipt hanging from between his lips. The smell of pork and seasoned vegetables condenses in the air. “Tfnight, fwe fsst luk knnns.”

Matsukawa delicately removes the paper from his mouth, and he coughs and tries again. “Tonight, we feast like kings.”

“Kings,” Matsukawa intercedes, “whose best friends just had to pay the rent last week and are a little broke at the moment, but still are amazing and love you and also remembered how much you love tofu.”

Hajime grins, full of teeth, and musses Hanamaki’s hair while his hands are full and he can’t stop him, ignoring his muffled _‘oi!’_ of protest. He turns to Matsukawa next, but the boy holds up his arms in an X-position in front of his chest, so he settles for shoving his shoulder in a gruff, affectionate way. Tooru emerges from the bathroom then in a much more presentable state, and sniffs that all this greasy food would only leave them looking bloated in the morning, then is quick to retract his statement when Hanamaki threatens to eat his share.

They settle for rewatching _Godzilla_ on the TV for the fiftieth time, because even after all this time Hajime has never grown out of loving it, like he’s never outgrown insects and lizards completely either. Hanamaki takes great pleasure in pointing at the screen every time Godzilla appears and telling Tooru, “That’s you,” and Matsukawa scoops all the onions out of his carton and puts them in Hajime’s food instead when he’s not looking. Matsukawa loses at rock-paper-scissors, so he’s sent to the convenience store to bring them back ice-cream, and by the time he gets back, the movie is over and they’ve switched on _E.T._ instead, at Tooru’s insistence.

“Happy birthday, Iwa-chan~” Tooru sings, and then the three boys each take a scoop of their ice-cream and smear it into the birthday boy’s hair. Hajime tenses up when it drips down his neck, but he’s laughing so hard he’s barely breathing in.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa leave before the clock strikes midnight, but on the dot, they both post the same message on the group chat. _Happy un-birthday, muscle man._

Hajime’s just stepping out of the bathroom, towel draped over his wet hair from cleaning himself up, when he sees the messages, and he smiles down at his phone.

“Iwa-chan, did you have a nice birthday?” Tooru murmurs next to his ear, pausing on his way to his room.

“Yeah.” Hajime’s eyes glint from the light of his phone screen, the smile-wrinkles around them made more prominent. “One of the best.”

“I’m glad.” With a smile of his own, and a gentle pat to Hajime’s cheek, he retires to his room without anything else to say.

Hajime watches his back disappear with a thoughtful expression, but then shakes himself out of the stupor and retreats into his own room, just one wall-corner away from Tooru’s. The sports bag Tooru had given him that morning is still on his bed where he’d left it, and Hajime considers putting it away for now, but then he simply can’t resist upturning his old one so that everything spills out over his blanket. It’s faded and old, the bag, and coming apart at the seams. He’s had it since last year of middle school and had taken care of it well, but it was not unsusceptible to overuse and, well, Hajime had used it _thoroughly_ well for four years. Even though he’d needed a new one, he’d never said anything about it to anybody; he couldn’t afford to get one and his parents couldn’t scrape together enough money for luxuries most of the time, so he’d kept quiet. He wonders when Tooru had even noticed.

With excessive care, he folds his workout clothes and lays them at the bottom of the new bag, followed by his towel, sweatbands, volleyball shoes, water bottle, and everything else he takes with him to the gym. The bag looks pristine and new, and even though the equipment inside it is the same old he’s used for years, it all suddenly feels pristine and new too.

Tooru did things really right, sometimes.

Gratitude and affection ballooning together in his chest, Hajime creeps into the living room where they had left their takeout mess to be cleaned up in the morning. The roses Hanamaki and Matsukawa had brought him are still spilled across the coffee table, amidst empty cartons and napkins, and he scoops them all up. From the kitchen he procures a baking tray from one of their cabinets, which he fills halfway with water, then lays the roses atop to swim in neat and pretty little rows all packed together. Spritzing the petals with water gives them an added sparkling quality, and Hajime decides that these would do quite nicely.

He knocks on Tooru’s door—then frowns to hear a voice inside.

“Yes, of course, I’m completely free,” Tooru is saying when he opens the door, his phone pressed to his ear. He pulls the receiver from his mouth by just a fraction, then mouths _Sa-to-mi-chan,_ so Hajime will get the hint.

Hajime swallows. Oh.

“Here, I thought you might like these or something,” he says gruffly, shoving the tray into Tooru’s hand before turning on his heel and marching back to his own room. He doesn’t look back, just glares at his door as he approaches and at the cardboard cutout _IWA-CHAN_ nametag Tooru had made and hung on it for him on their first day here. As if he would forget which was his own room and accidentally stumble into Tooru’s bed instead, maybe.

“Satomi-chan, can you hold one sec—thank you, Iwa-chan, they’re _really_ pretty!” Distracted, Tooru shuts his door softly again, then can be heard saying, “Tomorrow, six o’clock, right? Shall I pick you up?”

Hajime picks up his new sports bag and drops it into his desk chair, then falls onto his bed stomach-first. Face buried in his pillow, his resounding sigh is surly and deflates him whole, and he thinks to himself, _I don’t even know why I fucking bother._

 

-

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa invite themselves over for breakfast, two days later. Just walk in the door, kick off their shoes, and plop themselves down on the table, and when Matsukawa suggests, “You know, you should really lock your door,” Hajime almost leaves his skin to find them sitting there.

“When did you two even—”

“Iwa-chan~” Tooru’s voice is raspy from sleep and he’s scratching an itch over his shoulder as he suddenly appears, caught in the middle of a satisfying yawn and shuffling past the table without a second glance. “Iwa-chan, I’m _thirsty.”_

 _“Gross,_ Oikawa, put a shirt on.”

“Nobody wants to be looking at your gross body when they’re eating.”

Tooru gasps, whirls around to finally realize they have company, and his recovery is quick and sharp; flicking stray bangs from his face with that perfected pompous air only _he_ could manage to pull off, he smirks. “Satomi-chan didn’t mind looking at it all night long.”

Matsukawa snorts. “For the last time, Oikawa, your shirt goes on the _top_ half of your body.”

“Do you expect us to believe that Arizawa from Calculus got it on with _you,_ of all people?”

Hajime fills a glass with water and places it in front of Tooru’s place at the table, then says, quietly, “He did come home pretty late last night.”

Hanamaki stares at his face, but their eyes don’t meet.

 _“See?”_ Tooru is the picture of smugness. “Now what are you two— _gremlins_ —even doing here so godforsaken early?”

They’ve come for Hajime’s famous miso soup that they can remember from their training camps; Hanamaki claims he’s been having dreams of it, of how delicious it’s always been. But the truth comes out when Matsukawa admits he had tried to cook them fish this morning and burnt it beyond recognition, before finally giving up and suggesting they try to mooch food off of Hajime and Tooru instead. Hajime laughs, then double checks he’s got enough rice in the rice cooker; half of it had been meant for their lunch boxes, but he figures it’s the same thing if they share it now.

Matsukawa sets the table while Tooru chops vegetables with difficulty, and Hanamaki slips away to the bathroom before returning with a shirt he had pulled from Tooru’s closet, making a show of forcing it on him until they’re both wrestling on the ground and Hajime has to give them each a swift kick for their “dumbassery,” as he puts it.

“And just put the damn shirt on already, Shittykawa. You could cut the vegetables with your nipples instead of the knife at this point.”

“Oh my, Iwa-chan! They’re just shy because you keep staring at them~”

Hajime picks up the chopping knife and just stands there _looking murderous_ until Tooru shoves his arms through the sleeves and hightails it out of the kitchen.

Surprisingly, no one is injured or maimed and they begin their breakfast in peace. The upcoming weekend’s practice match is the only topic of discussion for the morning; there’s a team from another college coming and Matsukawa’s done some intel to learn that Fukurodani’s recently-graduated ace will be there, so of course all Tooru can think about is where he’s going to get his hands on videos of Fukurodani’s old matches, and Hajime prods his forehead with his chopsticks and reminds him there are six players on a team.

By the time they’ve cleared the table and glanced at the clock, they realize they’re running late and there’s a mad scramble to get their shoes on and be the first one out the door. There’s no time to make lunch as Hajime had planned, so instead he grabs the spare change off the coffee table and pockets it. It’s only when they’re nearing campus and have slowed into a dawdle that Hanamaki falls into step next to him.

“So…” he begins conversationally. “I was in Oikawa’s room, and I just happened to see a _suspiciously_ familiar bed of roses sitting by his window?” The question is phrased innocently but it sounds almost like an accusation, and he has an eyebrow raised so high it’s disappeared into his hairline.

“Get your eyes checked,” Hajime grumbles, then shoves his fists into his pockets and resolutely marches ahead.

 

-

 

He has enough change for milk bread.

The campus cafeteria’s packed chock full of people pushing this way and that, elbowing their way to the front of the line or hanging back to make important lunch-related decisions, but Hajime had walked past it all to the vending machine standing almost deserted in the corner. He’d eaten a brief lunch with his study group already, and had stepped out just to quickly buy himself a sports drink before his next lecture began, jingling the coins in his pocket and carrying nothing much else. But—he has enough change for milk bread.

He shoots a long, tortured look at the line.

The business and marketing section of the campus is different from his own. While he’s used to seeing disheveled and sleep-deprived students poring over three textbooks at once or sleeping in hallways with their backpacks as pillows, there’s a buzz in this area. Everyone is with someone, schmoozing, socializing, flirting. They’re like dozens of Toorus, though Hajime is sure no one else could have mastered the art of being _that_ obnoxious aside from his very own best friend.

He peeks into what he knows to be Tooru’s lecture hall, the package of the bread crinkling and making a static-like noise under his thumb, and awkwardly roves his eyes over the students.

Tooru is there—but he’s not alone. He’s pulled up a chair to the back of the classroom so he’s sitting facing some pretty girl who’s definitely _not_ Satomi-chan, chatting with her and laughing with her. They have food spread out on the desk before them. It looks like they’re sharing.

Hajime considers calling out to him, but then glares at his shoes and decides against it. Finding Tooru’s bag, and desk by association, he just leaves the milk bread there to be found later, and stalks back out before someone can notice that a STEM major had sneaked his way into the business hall and call him out on it. The last thing he wants right now is to be seen by Tooru and introduced to his lunch buddy.

He’s really craving a sports drink all of a sudden, but he doesn’t have enough change in his pocket.

 

-

 

Evening practice bypasses its usual time and ends right at the edge of when night begins, and the four boys shuffle into the locker room swimming in their own sweat but not damp in their enthusiasm. Hanamaki collapses on the bench with an exaggerated noise, bending down to untie his laces.

“My bruises got married and had bruise babies,” he groans, then shakes his head. “And here I thought they worked us hard at Seijou. I was a damn fool.”

“Isn’t it great?” Tooru beams.

“Oikawa’s kink is killing his own body. But the rest of us actually _like_ the temple through which our flesh exists, and worship it as we should.” Matsukawa gets a smack to the ass with a rolled-up towel for his smart comment.

They shuffle wearily into the showers, each taking a cubicle side-by-side before stripping and tossing their sweaty clothes over the doors. There are four consecutive squeaks of taps being turned, and then steam quickly begins to accumulate. The cubicles are new, different from high school, and Hajime, he _likes_ that it’s no longer just one big room where everyone can see everything about each other.

“I think Iwaizumi thinks he’s entered a music video.”

“Wish _I_ had the talent to look so emo at will. What do you think he’s hearing in his head? One Ok Rock?”

“Something that cool? Nah, Iwa-chan’s all about the trashy pop songs. Perfume, maybe.”

With a start, Hajime realizes he’d been staring at his feet too long, just letting the water rush down his back without making a move to clean himself. Flushing, he grabs his soap and begins scrubbing. “I think Oikawa’s just projecting his own shitty tastes onto other people. Remember the Big Bang obsession? We _all_ had to put up with that one.”

“Yeah, and then Coach banned playing music over the bus speakers, so everyone had to pay the price.”

“I’m sorry that all of you are such _cavemen_ that you can’t even appreciate _fine art_ when it’s right in your—” He gets drowned out by a round of loud booing, and rather huffily ties his towel around his waist before storming out. The other three follow, snickering.

On the way home, they take a detour towards a little ramen stall to ease their rumbling stomachs, and Tooru bats his eyelashes and convinces the owner to give them extra gyoza with their order. The last time they’d had ramen like this was after their Spring High loss to Karasuno, even if that hadn’t been the last time they had been together.

“You know that Karasuno captain, Sawa-something?” Hanamaki suddenly says, and Hajime jumps, wondering if he had read his thoughts. “What do you think he eats to get all jacked like that?”

Matsukawa snorts. “Why don’t you ask our muscle man?”

“Oh, Iwaizumi’s toned for sure. But that guy’s _thick.”_ He rolls up one sleeve and flexes. “I wanna get ripped like that and then make my muscles dance on command. Just to prove I can,” he adds, before they can ask. “Somehow I just _know_ that guy’s not using his muscle right. Off the court, I mean. It haunts me.”

Matsukawa curls a hand around his bicep and gives it a squeeze. “I think you’re pretty ripped already, though. And your thighs are even thicker.” He slides his hand up Hanamaki‘s leg instead, feeling out the muscle there with careful deliberation.

Hajime watches them and suddenly feels all hot and bothered under his collar, and noisily begins slurping his ramen so he has an excuse to stare down his bowl.

“Issei, _please_ , my eyes are up _here_ ,” Hanamaki teases, then they look at each other and both burst into laughter. The air’s not weird or tense—it’s only Hajime who feels like that.

“Could you two _please_ at least behave while we’re out in public?” Tooru gripes, rolling his eyes. He’d witnessed everything even though he’s been preoccupied with his phone for a while now, and he looks thoroughly annoyed at their antics. His phone starts to vibrate then, whoever he’d been texting deciding to call, and he shoots them another horrid look before ducking under the stall flap for privacy. “Ah, Rena-chan?” they hear, before his voice dissolves in the distance. “Did you want to change the meeting time?”

Matsukawa watches him go with something like a disapproving frown pulling at his face. But Hajime doesn’t look up from his ramen.

“Do you think I should up my weight training?” Hanamaki asks then, kind of loudly.

“The bulkier you are, the harder it is to jump high,” Hajime points out.

“Then what about you, huh, our muscle man?” Grinning, he pokes Hajime’s side and his eyes twinkle when it makes him jump. “What do you need all this muscle for anyway? Mister? Ace? Wing? Spiker?”

He punctuates each word with another poke and Hajime tries to tell him, “Cut it out!” except that it comes out choked behind a laugh, and that’s when Hanamaki lunges with his hands shaped like pincers. By the time Tooru returns, they’re wrapped up in each other and wrestling with their hands and laughing all the while, Matsukawa looking on with an amused expression, and he gets this sort of tight little smile on his face. Not annoyed or embarrassed. Just sort of— _frigid._

“I knew you two were trying to corrupt my Iwa-chan,” he says, sliding back into his seat.

“Not trying, _succeeding,”_ Hanamaki gloats, and he doesn’t completely move his hands away but Hajime doesn’t mind it too much.

They finish up their ramen and move on in amiable silence, serenaded by the sounds of cicadas and the periodic buzzing of Tooru’s phone as he replies to text messages. They leave Hanamaki and Matsukawa at the split-off point on their ways home, though not before inviting them for breakfast again in the morning. ‘ _Better than them showing up uninvited,’_ Hajime says, when Tooru grimaces, and then they bump knuckles and part ways. They walk just a few more steps before Tooru finally puts his phone away for the first time since the ramen stall.

“Iwa-chan, why did you come to my class and then just leave without saying anything?”

Hajime tenses, stomach lurching suddenly. Tooru hadn’t said anything about the milk bread when they’d met up after lectures or throughout practice or any time after, so Hajime had assumed it wasn’t something they were ever going to talk about. They had bought each other plenty of things over the years after all. It was just a new thing to leave it to be found without a word.

“You were talking to someone,” he grunts, staring ahead at the road and determinedly nowhere else. “I didn’t wanna be rude.”

 _“Aw,_ Iwa-chan, were you feeling _shy?”_

 _“God,_ no. I’m just not like you, okay? I don’t feel the need to insert myself into everyone else’s conversations.”

“Hmm?” Tooru is quiet for a while, just thinking maybe, or wondering whether this was a topic even worth pursuing. But when he speaks again, his voice is soft and thoughtful, like when he’s having trouble syncing up a toss with a spike and he’s calculating trajectories in his head. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

When Hajime looks, he’s got this curious look in his eyes that definitely means he’s trying to figure out something he can’t pinpoint. “Don’t look at me like that,” Hajime snaps, suddenly annoyed. “Like you’re trying to dissect me or pick apart my thoughts or something. It’s fine on the court, but you know I don’t like you using that shit on me off it.”

“Sorry, Iwa-chan.” It’s weird for a few steps, the atmosphere, but Tooru bounces back quickly and then sings, “But, you know, you really need to have thoughts deeper than “me want food” or “volleyball, good” for me to be able to pick them apart~”

“One of these days I’m really gonna spike the ball down your goddamn _throat.”_

 

-

 

They visit an amusement park for Tooru’s birthday, all four of them, and Hajime remembers the first time he had ever come to one when he had been six. Tooru had thrown up after riding the teacups and started crying, so Hajime had given up on the trip so he could sit on a bench holding his best friend’s hand and occasionally giving him a sip of apple juice. That memory was from long ago, and now all Tooru wants to do is sit on all the rides and buy a headband with cute animal ears and fret, before _every single damn ride,_ “I don’t know, what if Iwa-chan’s not tall enough to be allowed on?”

“It’s his birthday. Somebody hold me back,” Hajime seethes, already rolling up his sleeves, and Matsukawa has to put a hand on his shoulder and steer him away.

They sit on all the rollercoasters first so all the rides after feel just a little bit boring, so instead they suck down milkshakes at the food stalls and watch a nearby puppet show even though they’re the only ones there not under ten or accompanying someone who is. On the way out, Hanamaki nudges Tooru and whispers, “Don’t look now, but Arizawa from Calculus is stabbing you with her eyes.”

They all follow his gaze to find Satomi-chan standing at the entrance of the show, holding hands with a small child who was most likely her little sister and glaring at Tooru with undeniable ire distorting her face. He is not perturbed, just gives her a grand smile and a little waggle of his fingers in greeting, but she sticks her nose in the air and stomps away, little sister in tow.

Three pairs of eyebrows raise up.

“I thought you got it on with her all night long?” Hanamaki reminds him. “Why’s she looking at you like you pissed in her cup?”

“You sure you did it right?” Matsukawa wants to know, smirking.

Tooru shrugs, not looking affected by the encounter. “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s my birthday, so I just want to have fun and not think about all this. Let’s go.”

Their final stop for the day is the planetarium ride, which Tooru had specially saved for last. They pile into their seats, right at the front, and travel through a tunnel with constellations and planets and galaxies projected on the walls. Tooru is mesmerized through it all and still a little dazed after, and the three boys bump his shoulder as they pass, grinning.

On the way home, they stop by a corner store to pick up sparklers and cake—chocolate flavor, with chocolate frosting and strawberries on top, Tooru’s favorite—and take them up to the roof of Tooru and Hajime’s building. They light the sparklers and eat the cake and stargaze and practice a bit of volleyball and eventually retire down to the apartment to drink grape juice while pretending that it’s fancy wine. Hanamaki and Matsukawa fall asleep on the couch, so they toss a blanket over their forms and leave them there as snoring lumps before disappearing into their bedrooms.

The rest of summer passes in a haze of volleyball. Training camp begins the same day of break, so there’s not even enough time to visit home properly for more than a weekend before they’re expected back at the school gym. Hanamaki’s bruises become grandparents and Hajime’s not sure his palms will ever not be red again—but they love it. They love the intensity, they love the sport, and best of all, they love playing it together.

During the last week of training camp, they play their second match against Fukurodani’s ex-ace.

The bus from the visiting campus pulls up into the nearest parking lot, but rather than its shuddering engine, the first thing they hear is a chipper “hey, hey, _hey!”_ before boys in workout gear begin piling into the gym. There are enough players on both teams to have two matches going at once, so the four Seijou alumni shuffle to the second court and find themselves opposing both the ace and his peculiar friend with the permanent bedhead.

“Kuroo-kun~” Tooru greets him as if they’re old friends, bouncing over with a wave of his hands.

“Ah, Oikawa. Ready to get creamed?”

“Funny, weren’t we the only ones who did any _creaming_ last time?”

“The way you say that with that innocent, virgin-lookin’ face of yours really pisses me off.”

“Least I don’t walk around with that face and that hair, like you just romped around in the sack before walking out onto the court.”

Kuroo smirks, looking particularly devilish. “Who says I didn’t?”

Despite the banter, there’s an air of something amiable between them, like they’ve reached some sort of agreement or formed some kind of twisted friendship based off snark and being downright obnoxious. The chemistry is undeniably sparking.

Hanamaki sidles up next to Hajime and frowns. “When did _they_ get so close?”

He just shrugs, trying not to look or feel too annoyed.

They play three matches and win two, and Hajime comes down from that final spike with a victory cry and gets his hair ruffled by his teammates. When he turns towards Tooru, it's to find him deep in exchange with Kuroo as they pretend to shake hands while ribbing one another about the many fumbles during the match. Fukurodani’s ace is there too, not really taking sides but just laughing loudly at the best remarks, but it doesn’t really feel like he is—it feels like just the two of them.

Kuroo is a _boy_ , Hajime tells himself. He’s not Satomi-chan or Rena-chan or that pretty girl Tooru shares his lunches with. So it doesn’t mean anything, or, _shouldn’t._

With that edge of uncertainty, the training camp comes to an end.

 

-

 

Kindaichi’s gotten taller. Hajime notes this with pride and only a _little_ bit of envy, as he hands him a plate and claps him hard on the back, grinning affectionately when his junior flushes from the attention. Kunimi picks at his vegetables with a bland look that was usual for his face, and the contrast is exceptionally amusing to watch Kyoutani savagely rip at his meat next to him.

Tooru’s still fiddling with the telescope he had checked out of the astronomy department, looking at charts and space maps and the Google searches he had used to calculate where exactly to position his lens for the best view of Saturn, which was projected to appear in the night sky some time tonight. He’s shivering a little from the cool, autumn air and his glasses keep slipping down the bridge of his nose to be impatiently pushed back up, but mostly he’s completely immersed in his project and Hajime knows his cheeks aren’t flushed just from the sting of the cold.

“Who’s up next?” Matsukawa calls, flipping another slab of meat on the grill. They had begged the landlord to lend them one and set it up on the roof, and he had been very kind and agreeable. Matsukawa had completely taken over grilling duty, and Watari, once he had arrived, had hurried to claim the position of his assistant.

Hajime holds out two plates, taking one for himself and setting the other on the balcony edge next to Tooru. “Eat,” he orders, because he knows Tooru sure as hell won’t remember to when he’s _this_ obsessed with something.

“I think I’ve got it,” the setter mumbles, gingerly stepping back so as not to disturb the position of the telescope. “Thank you, Iwa-chan, you’re the best mom!”

Hajime doesn’t dignify that with a response like he normally would. “That’s a hell of a lot of math you’ve done.”

“I like math,” Tooru hums, looking rather pleased as he picks at a pepper. “That’s why I went into business, you know that. It’s simple if you just memorize equations and follow the steps, and it keeps your brain sharp. Sometimes I like to do Calculus homework in my head just to see if I can.”

He’s looking right at him as he says this, peering into his eyes as if he’s trying to get him to understand something. But Hajime just looks down at his food and asks, “Why didn’t you just go straight into astronomy then?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Astronomy and space and aliens are just a hobby, Iwa-chan. It’s interesting stuff and I like reading and learning about it all to relax. If I made a career out of it, what would I do to unwind?”

“There’s volleyball?” Hajime suggests, but it’s not quite right and he knows what Tooru’s going to say even before his eyes glint with something serious and intense.

“Volleyball’s not just a hobby.”

“Hear, hear!” Hanamaki’s bland cheer rings out across the rooftop, and they spy him lounging in a chair with his Ramune raised high. “Now stop having serious life talks over there, you two, and come give these pipsqueaks a pep talk! Or did you forget why we invited ‘em over?”

The Spring High tournament is lurking just around the corner, and it had been a collective-born thought by the ex-third-years to plan something special for their old team before they ventured into their first match. Hanamaki had rightly pointed out that nothing motivated teenage boys quite like barbecue, and Tooru had been the one to turn it into a space-themed event. At first they had worried that it might have been too chilly to spend the night on a rooftop, but even the weather had worked itself out somehow. And their juniors seem relaxed and unafraid, as they had hoped.

Yahaba startles when Tooru suddenly swings an arm over his shoulders. “All right! Me and Yahaba-kun, the old captain and the new captain, are now going to sing the Seijou school anthem to motivate you all!”

Yahaba blushes. “Wait, I really don’t—”

Tooru just starts belting it out without a moment to spare, and his unfortunate junior is forced to eke out the words that get drowned by his more enthusiastic singing anyway. Watari is nice enough to lay on the applause after their grand finish, even though at least two voices yell out, “It’s a no from me!” But then Hanamaki pulls up a karaoke playlist on YouTube and passes his phone around, and everyone is roped into singing at least once (though Kyoutani almost flings the phone off the roof and they quickly decide to give him a pass). They sing until their voices grow hoarse, and between them, they finish all the barbecue.

Hajime takes Watari down with him to their apartment so they can make a pot of hot chocolate, and they bring it up to find that Yahaba and Kindaichi had laid out a blanket and the boys had made a small circle sitting on top of it. Hajime takes his open spot next to Tooru, then tosses a scarf over his head that he had grabbed from the boy’s room. “Because you were shivering earlier,” he says, and doesn’t wait long enough to see what kind of face Tooru makes before he starts distributing the cocoa.

They sip from their cups slowly, and take turns going up to the telescope to peer through it. He can understand in this moment why Tooru had picked this as a hobby, Hajime thinks, looking up into space.

They go around the circle, after, and say their favorite memory of being on the Seijou team together. It had been Tooru’s idea, and while all the boys had rolled their eyes at the sappy suggestion, soon it grows quiet and Matsukawa starts them off. They go down the circle, one by one, no one skipping a turn; even Kyoutani manages to recall the time the seniors had taken them out for chicken at the end of training camp. Then it’s Kindaichi’s turn, and he says, “That moment after a victory, when we would all run up together into one big group to celebrate…”

And it goes quiet again— _s_ _ubdued._

Hajime tightens a fist, then mumbles, gruffly, “Hey, guys. _Win.”_

No one says anything. But when he looks around the circle at his juniors, all he sees are fierce and determined faces, and he thinks that Seijou is going to be all right.

 

-

 

It’s quite late when the team finally disperses to return home, the rooftop left looking spotless and untouched as they had found it. They offer to let the boys stay the night, or at least walk them to the station, but they all politely decline before going about their separate ways. Hajime’s certain they’ll be getting several calls in the morning; he’s already found a stray glove and a pair of keys lying around the apartment.

Tooru deadbolts the door, then breathes out slow as he unwinds his scarf. His cheeks have still yet to lose their rosy tint, but his fogged glasses have slowly begun to clear up.

To Hajime’s surprise, he presents him with the scarf.

“It’s yours,” he tells him, sheepishly. “I stole it last year from your closet, remember? I had slept over, and when we woke up the next morning, it was suddenly cold outside. I took it and then you had a runny nose for the rest of the week.”

“Oh, yeah.” Hajime accepts it, but then just stands there staring at it in his hands, not knowing what to do.

“It smells like you. I like that.”

And Hajime doesn’t really know what that means or what to make of it, but his best friend in the world is smiling at him all soft and warm, his cheeks and his nose still red and his disheveled bangs limp over his forehead, and all Hajime can think about is seeing Saturn through a telescope and feeling _mesmerized_.

“You can… keep it, if you want,” he offers, awkwardly, holding it back out. “I mean, I have a new one, now. And obviously I didn’t miss this one. And you like it.” _And you like that it smells like me._ “So, yeah. If you want.”

The scarf exchanges hands once again.

“Then I’ll keep it,” Tooru declares, and he’s still smiling.

 

-

 

Sometime in mid-November, Tooru and Hajime’s heating breaks. They wake one morning to find the apartment air frosty and uninhabitable, and there’s a notice from the landlord taped to their door informing them that a repairman had been called but would not be by for another two days. So they pack up their things, just the bare necessities and their volleyball equipment, and show up on Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s doorstep.

There’s still a toothbrush hanging from Hanamaki’s mouth when he opens the door. “We don’t want any.”

He moves to shut the door, but Tooru is quicker and jams his foot into the doorway, and Hajime wrestles his way through using pure muscle alone. They dump their bags in the living area before long, Matsukawa eyeing them with folded arms.

“Just two days,” Hajime promises, feeling genuinely apologetic. Behind him, Tooru is pulling out a thick bag stuffed full of bottles, sprays, lotions, cleansers, and whatever else it is he uses to get his skin looking like _that_ —all sparkly and perfect.

“Well, we don’t really mind,” Matsukawa assures him, “but our place is definitely smaller than yours.”

“And filthier,” Tooru sniffs, looking about at what he can see of the apartment. The doorway had been so small they had needed to duck on their way in, and the rest of the place isn’t any bigger. The paint on the wall is old and peeling, and there are cushions scattered everywhere so they would at least have a comfortable place to sit instead of just the fraying tatami mats. The apartment isn’t exactly dusty, but it’s not sparkling either. Personally, though, Hajime thinks it all feels very cozy.

Hanamaki returns then, sans toothbrush and grinning. “I’ll have you know, we gave this place a _t_ _horough_ scrub when we moved in.”

Tooru looks suspicious. “And you’ve cleaned it again since then, right?”

The two boys don’t answer, but share cryptic, knowing smirks that could have meant anything. Tooru repeats himself, louder and more urgent this time. _“You’ve cleaned it again since then, right?”_

Hajime kicks him lightly on the back of his knees. “Stop complaining so much about everything when they’re putting us up, dumbass. And like _you’re_ the poster child for perfect cleanliness. You clog the drain with your hair like every other week, then just leave it there for me to find and clean up.”

Tooru blushes but has nothing to say in defense of himself, so it’s settled that they’ll be staying. It’s still fairly early, so Hajime offers to cook the un-burnt fish he finds in the freezer, and Matsukawa fiddles with the rice cooker while the other two scrounge up whatever side dishes they can. They take everything with them to the living room and switch on the busted up kotatsu Hanamaki had brought from home, burrowing under it for warmth with a cushion each. It’s a lazy sort of morning and doesn’t exactly set a good tone for the busy day of classes they have ahead—but Hajime is content.

“Hope you guys don’t mind,” Hanamaki suddenly pipes up, “but there are a few house rules.”

Somewhat taken aback, both boys obediently nod their heads.

“Rule number one. Anyone who bangs their head on the top of the doorway has to put a hundred yen in the headass jar.” He gestures towards the mason jar they have sitting by the window with the words _I AM A_ _HEADASS_ scribbled on it in Sharpie; amusingly, there are a few stray coins already inside it. “We’re trying to save up enough to afford to get tested for the concussions we probably have by now.”

Hajime snorts. “Okay. What else?”

“Rule number two. If at any point a meteor hits this place, the first priority is to save my limited-edition baseball cards I have hidden under my mattress. They’ll fetch us a small fortune in case we need to start a new life or buy new faces after ours melt off.” He nods matter-of-factly. “Of course, this is just a worst-case scenario kind of situation. At the time we are not expecting any disasters of the meteorological kind.”

 _“Actually,”_ Tooru interjects, pushing up his glasses, “it’s not physically possible for a meteor to hit _any_ place. If a space rock crashes somewhere then it’s _technically_ called a meteorite—”

“Rule number three. No trying to teach us about space stuff.”

Tooru slumps over his bowl of rice, obediently shutting up but looking quite put out about it.

“Rule number four.” And he looks _right at_ Hajime as he says it, just for a brief moment before his gaze quickly flickers away again. “No… _teenage love angst_. That means _,_ but is not limited to, no flirting, no pining, no staring at each other passionately with _or_ without tears in your eyes, no brushing fingers, and _definitely no_ licking each other’s spoons to try and get an indirect kiss.”

Tooru recoils in disgust. “You’re nasty.”

But Hajime’s face heats up, ignites like a meteorite had struck his cheeks.

Matsukawa holds up a hand and declares, seriously, “I’m Matsukawa Issei, and I approve this message.”

They begrudgingly agree to comply with the four rules, refusing the suggestion to prick their fingers and form a blood pack, and then it’s time for class. Tooru bangs his head on the door on his way out and has to turn back inside, to snorts of laughter, to put a hundred yen in the jar.

“It’s not fair!” he whines, nursing the injury. “Iwa-chan’s not even tall enough to _be_ at risk!”

Somehow, miraculously, he manages to dodge the kick aimed at his back.

The four meet again sometime mid-day to eat lunch together. Hajime had wondered whether Tooru wouldn’t come, whether he’d eat lunch again with the same girl from before, but there he is at the start of the hour, putting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder and sucking loudly from a juice box next to his ear to annoy him. But Hajime’s so relieved that he’s not even annoyed; he just ruffles his best friend’s bangs in this fond way that has Tooru blinking really fast.

After afternoon classes and practice and a quick shower, the four boys return home together. They order take-out and pull out their books to study, but end up lazily watching a volleyball match on TV instead until they basically haven’t moved even one inch within the past hour. Eventually Tooru digs into his suitcase and pulls out his bag of skincare, then begins slathering things together with careful consideration until Hanamaki can’t resist asking, “Why are you so goddamn _extra?”_

“Sorry some of us _care_ about how we look,” Tooru replies, haughtily, placing himself in front of a mirror to smear his concoction onto his face. “My skin gets so dry in the winter. I really need to give it that extra boost of moisture to keep it looking dewy and fresh!”

Matsukawa touches his own cheek in worry. “You know, I’ve been noticing my skin’s a little dry too…”

Soon they’re all patting the mask onto their face, the room smelling distinctly like roses. Hanamaki proposes an oath,  _we_ _n_ _ever speak of this outside this room,_ while checking his sheet-white face out in the mirror from all directions. “Am I beautiful yet?”

“You’re always beautiful,” Matsukawa assures him, just as Tooru scoffs, “I’m not a miracle worker.”

Hajime is the only one who hasn’t yet given in to the pull of luscious skin, so Tooru scooches closer with all his lotions scooped up in his hands. He recoils, trying at first to resist by wrestling with Tooru, but the boy leans in inches from his face and the fight drains him to be replaced with something fluttery and warm.

“Iwa-chan, you have such nice pores,” Tooru coos in a voice that is low and barely audible, smoothing something flowery-smelling onto his skin with delicate hands.

Hajime swallows, his voice coming out thick. He can count all of Tooru’s lashes from this close. “I don’t really do anything, though.”

“That’s why I’m jealous. You’re so naturally handsome.”

He has to look away. Tooru is always doing things like this, acting flirty and saying flirty things. It annoys Hajime, most of the time, to see him act so flighty—but sometimes he doesn’t seem like he’s playing around. Sometimes his voice is low and smooth, like this, and he knows just what to do with his hands to get Hajime’s heart racing, like this.

Hajime can remember every instance Tooru has ever called him _handsome_. The first had been when they were twelve, when Tooru had been teasing him about looking so brutish and unsightly with his new braces. But he’d frowned when Hajime had just shrugged and said _I_ _know_ , taking his hand and telling him he wasn’t ugly, not at all, he was very handsome. The second had been when they were sixteen, when they’d been at practice and just pulled off a perfect A-quick, and Tooru had smirked and told Hajime, very genuinely, that he looked most handsome when spiking one of _his_ tosses. The third is right now.

“Oikawa,” Hajime starts, voice caught in his throat. “I—”

Tooru’s phone buzzes, then, and his face lights up with the screen. “Oh! It’s Akane-chan!” He gets to his feet, leaving Hajime sitting there uselessly as he rushes to the kitchen to take the call. “Sorry, I’ve just been trying to get her to go out with me for _forever.”_

Hajime’s heartbeat decelerates.

There’s an awkward, pregnant pause in the room. Both Hanamaki and Matsukawa frown in Tooru’s general direction, as if they can’t understand him or can’t decipher his motives. Hajime understands, though. Hajime understands that his best friend is not just flirty and whimsical by nature, but that some part of him is _so scared_ of being unloved that he acts this way so he’ll be loved by everyone. He’s known this all his life—but still he gets his hopes up.

Tooru eventually returns, and they wash the masks off their faces, and nobody mentions anything about Hajime’s stony-looking face as they get ready for bed. Suddenly, while standing in the middle of the living room in their pajamas, the dilemma occurs to all of them at once; there are only two rooms, but four of them.

Hanamaki claps his hands once, and dictates, “Right, so, Oikawa can stay with Issei in his room. It’s the slightly bigger one, so I’m sure your ego will fit in it quite nicely. And Iwaizumi—”

“Iwa-chan and I don’t mind sharing a room,” Tooru quickly speaks up. Three pairs of curious eyes land on him. “Why don’t you two share Mattsun’s room, and we’ll share Makki’s? We’ve slept in the same bed tons before, when we were kids, so it won’t be weird.”

“We’ve all slept together before, during training camps and stuff, remember?” Matsukawa points out, a single eyebrow raised high. He and Hanamaki share a knowing look.

“That was on different futons!”

“I don’t really care who I share a room with,” Hajime pipes up, shrugging, and doesn’t look at Tooru.

In the end, nobody shares a room with anybody, and instead they bring blankets into the living room and create a makeshift bed big enough for the four of them. They find a heated blanket to lay underneath, so they wouldn’t freeze during the night, and the entire arrangement is very comfortable except that Hajime ends up next to Tooru.

His best friend smells like soap and toothpaste and the spritz of cologne he’d worn on his neck today, and Hajime can’t find a position to lie that completely quashes his sudden restlessness.

“Iwa-chan?” Tooru whispers, into the dark. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he grunts back. “Must still have adrenaline in me or something. I can’t seem to settle. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No. I mean. Before…”

“Before, what?”

He hears a rustling sound, and from the moonlight coursing through a crack in the curtains, he can make out Tooru’s silhouette well enough to tell that he’s sat up. “Before, when I was putting on the mask. You seemed like you were going to say something.”

His heartbeat picks up, but he forces himself to be calm. “I was just going to say... that I have some really good genes, I guess.”

Tooru doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there in a long stretch of silence that makes it near impossible to know what he’s thinking. But when he finally speaks again, he sounds almost— _sad_ , disappointed. “Is that really all you were going to say?”

Now it’s Hajime’s turn to sit up, blinking the dark out of his eyes so he can see Tooru’s face better. “What else would I say?”

“I just thought...” He breathes in sharply, and then his usual impish smile is back on his face. “Just thought you’d at least acknowledge that _my_ beautiful face is just as, if not _more,_ handsome and perfect! No one who’s come into _that_ close proximity with it has lived to tell the tale, you know.”

Hajime recognizes that tone; it’s when Tooru is plainly lying but he doesn’t want to be called out on it, doesn’t want to have to tell the truth. The last time he had used it had been almost exactly one year ago, when he’d bounced back so quickly from their loss to Karasuno that Hajime had suspiciously asked whether he was _really_ okay, and Tooru’s smile had frozen before he’d said _yes_ in a way that really meant _no, but I don’t want to admit it._ Hajime hadn’t pushed the issue, just said “me, too” in that exact same tone, and he doesn’t push the issue now either.

“Your face _is_ handsome and perfect, dumbass,” he says instead, smiling through the show of rolling his eyes.

Tooru is visibly taken aback at the rare and genuine admittance, so much so that he’s got no witty reply prepared to fire back at him. But it’s nice this way. They just smile at each other, trying to make out so much in each other’s distorted, shadowed faces.

Then Hanamaki’s voice suddenly rings out into the room.

“I _be-lieve,”_ he spits out, “that rule number four, article three, _clearly_ states that there should be no staring at each other passionately, with _or_ without tears in your eyes.”

“Can you two go to sleep now?” Matsukawa adds, his voice muddled by sleep. “You’re the _worst_ guests, I _swear.”_

The boys sheepishly mumble apologies and lie back down, finally returning silence to the apartment again. Before long, the sound of soft snoring ripples through the room, but Hajime lies awake for a while. He’s no longer restless, but he can’t stop smiling at the ceiling and he has a funny feeling that, even though he can’t see his face, Tooru is smiling, too.

 

-

 

“I think. I… like. I like Oikawa.”

Hanamaki cracks a peanut, then shoots him a bland look. “No shit, man.”

Hajime swallows the lump suddenly burning in his throat, then croaks, “I think I love him.”

“Is this news to you?” Matsukawa looks at him in surprise. “We thought you figured it out a long time ago. You look so constipated when you look at him, we figured you were having some sort of internal monologue with yourself about how you want to, I don’t know, rub up on his thighs or something.”

“I _did_ figure it out a long time ago,” he admits, then tightens a fist. “It’s just. It’s so _stupid_ —liking that guy. With how he is.”

They’re sitting in a circle around the kotatsu again, blankets draped over their shoulders. The sweet grandmother who lived down the hall had given them a bag of roasted peanuts that morning and told them to share nicely, so they’d decided to stay in for the day. There’s a wastebasket set up on the other side of the room to see who could aim the most shells into it, but there are more discarded husks around the entire perimeter of the basket than there are actually inside.

Tooru is not with them. He had left an hour ago, for his date with Akane-chan.

Hajime had believed, foolishly, that last night’s weird and electric moment might have meant something. But he had woken up that morning to find Tooru already prepping for his date, and he hadn’t had the guts to bring up the topic of what it meant if his best friend thought he was handsome and he thought his best friend was beautiful. Apparently, it meant nothing.

Hanamaki tosses another shell and misses by a mile. “How can he not know? I mean, you gave the guy flowers! _Roses!_ Doesn’t he know what roses fucking _mean?"_

“You gave those roses to me first,” Hajime points out, fighting down a blush.

“Because we love you, man.” Matsukawa ruffles his hair. “But not the same way you love Oikawa.”

“Thing is,” Hanamaki pipes up, looking annoyed, “I’m like eighty-percent sure Oikawa likes you, too. I could have  _sworn._ I don’t know why he acts like that, why he’s putting on a fucking show with all these women. He’s got a new one on his arm every other week. What’s he trying to prove, anyway?”

Hajime doesn’t say anything, because he knows. Tooru’s terrified of being left alone someday, of looking around and seeing nobody by his side. He needs to prove to himself, in some twisted way, that he’s wanted. So he accosts these girls and takes them out for a good time, collects people he thinks will stay with him. Just Hajime had been enough for him, once, when they had been two boys on the playground who had nobody but each other. Maybe just Hajime isn’t enough anymore.

Hanamaki sighs as he aggressively cracks another peanut. “I think he’s just… what’s the word I’m thinking of? Like, the word for when you have a tiny dick, so you go around acting like you’re shit, and you buy a motorcycle just so you can rev the engine at three in the morning so everyone _knows_ you’re shit?”

“Overcompensating?” Matsukawa offers.

 _“That’s_ the one!” He puts his hand on Hajime’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I think Oikawa just has a tiny dick. But, like, in his heart.”

Hajime snorts, pushing his hand off. “What, like, he’s scared of how much he loves me?”

He’s half-joking about the insinuation, but Matsukawa nods, looking completely serious. “Exactly. I think so, too. I mean, we always thought… Even back in high school, it seemed like he had these… _feelings._ And he just didn’t know what to do with them, so he decided he’d just start dating girls like all the other boys around him were doing. Remember his first girlfriend? Remember how that went?”

Hajime does remember. He remembers how it had felt to learn from the rumor mill at Seijou that Tooru had accepted a confession from a pretty girl, to see her walk him to practice with their hands joined. He remembers the anger of seeing Tooru destroying himself over his serve, of thinking that his girlfriend should fucking be here for him, comforting him, taking care of him, doing _something._ And he remembers the devastation on Tooru’s face when she had left him, claiming he was too obsessed with the sport even though during her confession she had said she’d ‘ _fallen in love with the Oikawa-senpai who loves volleyball.’_ That’s when this had begun, all of it—when Tooru had started going out with any girl who paid him attention, terrified to think that he could lose someone so easily, but never actually lasting in a relationship long enough for it to become completely serious.

“How does that prove he’s into guys?” he asks, frowning.

“It doesn’t. It just proves that he’s into _you.”_ Matsukawa snaps a peanut shell in half. “Iwaizumi, you’re the closest person he’s got. That guy, he loves taking risks when it comes to volleyball, but never when it comes to people.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hanamaki echoes.

Hajime is still frowning, turning a peanut over and over in his hand as he ruminates. Finally, he sets it down and tells them, in a muted voice, “When I was seven, and Oikawa was six, I had a birthday party. Oikawa couldn’t come because he got sick from practicing volleyball late at night in the cold. I asked my parents if we could move my party until Oikawa was better, so he could come too, but they said we had already sent out invitations and it was too late to change it the day of.”

“I didn’t really enjoy myself. I couldn’t stop worrying about Oikawa, and I just kept thinking it would have been so much more fun if he was there too. So as soon as the last guest left that day, I ran over to his house to check on him. It turns out he had been crying all day because he wanted to come to my party, but his mother had told him he couldn’t go because he would get all the other kids sick. She told him, ‘If going to Hajime-kun’s party was so important to you, then you shouldn’t have sneaked out to play volleyball in the cold.’”

“The thing is, though, that we had both sneaked out that night, not just him. He was just the only one who got sick. But we were both miserable because of it. And I felt like it was kind of my fault, like I should have known better or I should have told him to dress warmer. So after that, I always made sure to take care of Oikawa—made sure he dressed warm and got enough sleep and didn’t overwork himself. Because if he got sick, then we would _both_ be miserable.”

Hajime breathes out slowly after he’s unleashed all the words that had ballooned up inside of him. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are both staring at him, as if waiting for more, waiting for him to explain himself. But Hajime doesn’t have anything more to say. He doesn’t even know why this story, this _one_ memory out of so many he has with Tooru, had come to his mind in this moment.

But he does know that, after that day, Tooru had never, ever sneaked out to play volleyball in the cold again.

 

-

 

Tooru returns from his date with Akane-chan a bit earlier than expected, surprising them all, but he hums cheerily as he pulls off his boots and wiggles his fingers in his obnoxious way, so they don’t question it. Collapsing next to Hajime, he paws at the last few peanuts left in the bowl. “Enjoying having no social life?”

“A social life doesn’t just mean macking on a girl you barely know. Sometimes it means throwing peanuts at two of your closest dude-bros and discreetly trying to air out your sweaty thighs whenever you go to the bathroom.”

Tooru clicks his tongue, though he looks amused. “Isn’t it a little early in the season to be going into hibernation mode?”

“Have you _been_ outside? It’s fucking freezing.”

“Wow, Makki, have you considered a career as a weather forecaster?”

Hanamaki flings a peanut at him.

They settle in for the evening, switching on some dull documentary about the Pacific seastar and pulling out the jigsaw puzzle Hanamaki’s sister had given him for his birthday; it has a thousand pieces and he hasn’t touched it even once. They lay it out on the table, brushing aside stray peanut shells first, then agonize over the impossible task of putting the thing together—except Hanamaki gives up within the first five minutes, all Tooru wants to do is take selfies for his social media accounts, and Matsukawa is quickly distracted by the unbelievably boring documentary as if he’s never seen anything more fascinating than a fucking starfish. Hajime attempts to persist, but he only finishes the corners before he’s too frustrated to care anymore.

Ice-skating is Tooru’s idea. He happens to see an advertisement while scrolling the community webpage for the skating rink that was opened annually once the weather was cold enough to permit it.

“I _am_ getting a little restless from being in here all day,” Matsukawa admits. Morning practice had been canceled due to their coach’s doctor’s appointment and tomorrow would be their usual rest day as well, and the boys simply weren’t used to two days of no activity.

Hanamaki complains the most, grumbling “do we _have_ to?” over and over even as he obediently adorns his coat and slips on his warmest pair of boots. Tooru is wrapping his scarf around his neck when his phone goes off, the chirpy tune signifying he had received a text, and he glances at it absentmindedly on his way out. His face perks up at the message.

“It’s Reiko-chan,” he informs them, happily tapping out a reply. “Do you guys mind if I invite her along? She’s really good at ice-skating, she told me so, and I think she’s been wanting to go—”

“I _do_ mind, actually,” Hajime interjects, his jaw locked into place.

He’s glaring a hole into the wall, but is still aware of everyone’s stunned reactions. Hanamaki looks slightly impressed, while Matsukawa is so taken aback that he forgets to duck under the doorway as he crosses the threshold and instead runs straight into it. But no one is more surprised than Tooru, staring at Hajime with his mouth pulled to form a silent _oh,_ lashes fluttering. Another message pops up on his phone, but he doesn’t seem to notice or elects to ignore it.

It’s when he meets Tooru’s eyes that all the sudden fire inside of him shrivels. He pushes his way past all three of them to be the first one out, muttering, almost for his own benefit, “Sometimes, it’s just, _nice,_ when it’s just the four of us.” He harrumphs loudly. “Whatever, do what you want.”

“Okay, Iwa-chan, I won’t invite her,” Tooru promises, pocketing his phone for the remainder of the night. If the other boys think it’s strange that he looks almost distinctly _pleased_ about the whole thing, then they don’t say a word.

They pass their time skating in circles in the modest community rink, noses and cheeks painted red before long, discussing volleyball strategies and the college tournament that would begin soon. The sky is clear tonight, and Tooru points up at the night and names the stars he knows, tells them which ones are part of a constellation and which of the lights are actually planets. Afterwards, they stop by a diner and warm themselves up slurping udon, quickly dissolving into an eating contest that Hajime easily wins.

When Tooru slips away to wash his hands, he leaves his phone on the table and it lights up with a message. Hajime doesn’t mean to look, not really, since Tooru’s phone is always buzzing anyway and the last thing he wants is to bear witness to his best friend’s ridiculously flirtatious behavior.

But the contact name reads Akane-chan with the message displayed right underneath, visible to anyone even if they hadn’t meant to look. ‘ _I_ _don’t need your fucking apology.’_

Hajime frowns.

“It’s rude to peep at other people’s phones, Iwa-chan~” Tooru is smiling when he rejoins the table, despite catching him in the act. But he does snatch his phone and stuff it away in his coat pocket.

“I was just checking the time. I didn’t see anything else,” he lies. He has a feeling Tooru doesn’t believe it since his grin loses some of its mirth, but they don’t talk about it further. That doesn’t mean Hajime stops thinking about it, though.

The apartment is frigid from the loss of human warmth when they return. Even the bustle of all four preparing for bed at once isn’t enough to banish the cold completely, and they shiver as they change into their night clothes and gather their blankets in the living room for Tooru and Hajime’s last night here. Matsukawa, however, looks completely stumped as he holds up the heated blanket before all three of them and announces, “It’s broken.”

“But it was fine yesterday?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He gets to his feet, frowning and tousling his hair. “Well, we can’t sleep here tonight. We’ll freeze to death on the floor.”

Hajime knows better than to trust anything out of either of his friends’ mouths. He glances suspiciously at the outlet and realizes what he’s trying to do at the exact moment Hanamaki cries, “You didn’t plug in the—!"

Matsukawa speaks over him. “We’ll take my room, and Iwaizumi and Oikawa, you can take the other one.”

Hanamaki has to be wrestled and prodded and shoved towards the direction of the bedrooms, grumbling under his breath, “I don’t want them doing that in my _bed.”_ And then, in a slightly louder voice, “I don’t even know why we bothered creating rule number four if everyone’s just gonna do whatever the hell they want around here.”

His roommate looks amused but does not relent the grip around his collar.

Hajime feels himself burning up inside, undecided whether he’ll show the two any mercy in the morning. He’s not sure what either of them expects to happen, but the night is no different than any other. Tooru puts a hand on his back and murmurs in his ear, “Let’s go, Iwa-chan,” and then they retire to Hanamaki’s room without another word. The bed is small, clearly not meant for two people, but they crawl under the covers without fanfare. Lying here like this, facing each other, Hajime can see how weary Tooru looks now that he’s washed away the dash of concealer he usually wears to cover his permanent dark circles.

Tooru notices him staring, and smiles a dazed and sleepy little smile. “Good night, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime’s heartbeat thuds for a second, and then he turns to face away, grunting into the dark, “‘Night.”

He lies there awake for what feels like hours, trying to discern any sign of the body lying behind him. Tooru doesn’t snore, never has, but it’s more than that; he breathes so quietly and so softly when he’s asleep, that it’s impossible to tell whether he’s breathing at all. It’s as if to compensate for his overzealous behavior when he’s awake, or perhaps it’s his real personality shining through in sleep, when there’s no one to impress. Hajime remembers when he’d been five and slept over at Tooru’s for the first time, and he’d gotten up periodically through the night just to check whether his best friend was still _living_.

But, even though they’re not lying close enough to touch, he thinks he can feel the heat from Tooru’s chest radiating far enough that it envelopes his back. And it’s enough.

 

-

 

December lolls around in a lazy fashion, and the four boys return home for a proper visit for the holiday season.

Hajime’s family never really does much for Christmas. He’ll help his father hang lights up around the house, but otherwise, they know Tooru’s family is going to send over gingersnap cookies and invite them over for Christmas dinner. This year, Tooru is wearing a red sweater with a nice collared shirt underneath, and Hajime is wearing a matching sweater in green. Their mothers had knit them together, for each other’s boys.

“Don’t you two look nice,” Hajime’s mother coos, her eyes glassy from emotion. “Like a perfect set.”

Tooru kisses her cheek and wipes her tears and thanks her wholeheartedly for the sweater, and Hajime looks away with something curdling in his stomach, thinking of how much he likes the picture.

They run up to Tooru’s old room after dinner, where nothing has been touched at all since he had moved out, and collapse on his bed together. There are still glow-in-the-dark stars taped to his ceiling, so they only turn on a small lamp in the corner of the room, throwing just enough light into the room that they can see each other’s faces as they exchange presents.

Hajime gives Tooru a pair of matching gloves to go with the scarf that was now his. He’d had to ask his mother where she’d bought it, but he knows it’s the perfect gift because Tooru has always been obsessed with all things matching; when they’d been children, his entire room—his curtains, his bedsheets, his rug, his pajamas—had all been the same, and when Hajime used to sleep over he’d always joke that he couldn’t find his best friend under all that camouflage.

And, he knows, Tooru has a habit of always forgetting to wear gloves. He thinks pushing his hands into his pockets will be enough, but they’re always red and frozen by the end of the day.

“You’re a setter. Take care of your hands better,” Hajime tells him, and hands him his present, hoping that now he always would.

Tooru gives him a pair of sneakers that last year Hajime had seen on some American baseball star and thought were _so cool,_ but had been disappointed to find were not available in Japan. Tooru had remembered and put in a special order for them, and though it had taken months, he’d finally been able to acquire them from a third-party just in time for Christmas.

Afterwards, he stretches loudly and drops his head down in Hajime’s lap, his smile hazy. “Mmm. Iwa-chan, I’m really happy right now.”

“Oikawa…” Hajime hesitates for just a moment, Adam’s apple bobbing several times, but then threads his fingers into Tooru’s hair. “Me, too.”

Their families visit the shrine together on New Year’s, and even in the early dawn, the grounds are packed and Tooru has to flutter his eyelashes at a few girls to let them cut in line. Hajime prays for the things he does every year: health and happiness and volleyball. Tooru lingers for a few seconds longer than anyone else, but no one questions it.

Takeru has the misfortune of picking a cursed fortune, so the two boys take him to tie it on a tree on the temple grounds. He wants to place it on the highest branch that he can, so Hajime puts him on his shoulders to grant him his wish.

“You should be on _my_ shoulders,” Tooru scoffs. “Iwa-chan is barely any taller than you are!”

“Takeru,” is all Hajime says, calmly.

“On it.” And the boy karate-chops his uncle on the top of his head, then gleefully returns Hajime’s high-five.

 _“Ow!”_ Tooru looks positively scandalized. _“Iwa-chan,_ stop turning my _own nephew_ against me!”

He smirks. “Stop being so easy to turn against, then.”

The old Seijou team had made plans to meet in the afternoon, after visiting the shrines with their families, so the boys split away after lunch to head instead for Yahaba’s home; it was the only one big enough to house an entire team’s worth of people, for Yahaba lived in a big, traditionally Japanese-style home that was a cause for great embarrassment for the boy. The team had affectionately dubbed him their Little Prince, and using the moniker was the quickest way to make him blush.

Most of the team has already gathered in the backyard by the time they arrive, looking just a bit sleep-deprived but happy nonetheless. It’s a nice sight to see, after their Spring High loss to Datekou in the semi-finals. The third-years hadn’t been able to attend due to their own tournament, but they had obtained a copy of the match video from their old coach and watched it together, then rushed to the group chat to lay praises on their juniors, to tell them they had played well and improved so much.

Hanamaki, who had spent the past week visiting his grandparents in Niigata, is the last to arrive. He shows up in a white sheet, and informs them the _real_ Hanamaki had died of boredom some days ago.

Tooru rolls his eyes. “And you call _me_ extra?”

He’s grinning when his face emerges. “What can I say? I’m dedicated to my craft.”

The boys pass the afternoon making paper lanterns together, of different styles and shapes and colors. Kunimi makes just a few before he’s had enough and just sits back to watch the others. Kyoutani has no patience for such delicate work, crumpling or snipping each of his papers to pieces, until Watari offers to work with him as a team so he’ll stop hacking at all his lanterns with the scissors. Afterwards, they hang them up on a tree in the yard along with a few strings of lights, then step back to admire their work.

Yahaba’s sweet grandmother brings them a pot of green tea, so they lounge with cups in their hands, playing catch with a baseball and talking about their fortunes. They stop by a corner store to buy steamed buns, then hike up the nearest hill and sit there, eating their buns and waiting for night to fall, to watch all the houses turn on their lights one by one until the entire town is aglow.

The break ends on a quiet note, and when Tooru and Hajime return to their apartment, it feels both like coming home and like the end of a very long dream.

 

-

 

“What do you see in him, anyway?”

Hajime looks round at Hanamaki, who had asked the question, and back towards the other end of the courtyard, where they can see Tooru surrounded by a cluster of girls. They’re each trying to press homemade lunch boxes into his hands, and though he laughs and politely refuses, the three know he lives for the attention.

Hanamaki shakes his head. “I mean, what _is_ it about him that makes you want to suck the obnoxious words right out of his annoying mouth with your own mouth?”

Hajime barks a laugh, then jokes, “I don’t know. He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

The look both Hanamaki and Matsukawa shoot him is _repulsed._

“Objectively speaking, yes, some might say he’s better-looking than average. But I’m not a giggly seventeen-year-old girl, so I’m not one of those people.”

“And,” Hanamaki adds, “how do you spend twenty years babysitting that brat, and still think any part of him is _cute?”_ He shakes his head. “Now, I was at my grandparents’ for one whole week and I was bored shitless. I mean, there wasn’t really anything to do except play with their dogs and just _think._ Well, I guess I could have studied, but come on.” The words are punctuated with a sigh. “My point is, I spent one whole week trying to figure out how this attraction could have _possibly_ started, and I came up with nothing.”

Hajime mulls that over. “You wanna know when I started liking him, or you wanna know when I _realized_ I like him? ‘Cause I don’t really know the first. But the second…”

He trails off then, face lowered in embarrassment, and both boys lean in especially close with their interests piqued.

It had been an exceptionally normal day, when Hajime had realized he liked his best friend. They’d been holed up in one of their rooms, though whose, he can’t remember, since they had both spent so much time in each other’s rooms over the years that the memories had almost melded together. Hajime had been lounging on the bed, mindlessly tossing a volleyball in the air, when Tooru had sat himself down by the window and begun cheerily clipping his nails, humming some vague tune under his breath as he usually did. Hajime had looked over only for just one moment, to see Tooru holding his foot up in the air and wiggling all of his toes, maybe checking them all or maybe pleased with how neat they all looked. He’d been smiling, a self-satisfied sort of smile, like he’d been perfectly at peace. And Hajime had looked upon his best friend caught in such simple a moment, and realized he thought him to be the cutest thing he had ever seen.

The air leaves his lungs, and his words falter—he’s so embarrassed.

Matsukawa whistles low. “Dang, you must have to _really_ like someone to think their toenail clipping face is cute.”

“That is somehow both the most romantic _and_ unromantic thing I have ever heard.”

“Oh, shut up.” Hajime looks away huffily, his eyes instinctively drawn back towards where he can see his best friend trying to escape the clutches of his fans. He can see him laughing sheepishly, hand on the back of his head as he bows over and over in apology, his mouth forming the word _sorry._ Anyone else might have barreled through them all. That’s another thing he likes about Tooru, he decides.

“Doesn’t explain why, though.” Hanamaki rubs his chin. “ _Why_ do you like him? Can’t be his personality. So is it his body? It’s gotta be his body.”

“You wanna fuck him.”

“Don’t be crass,” Hajime snaps, annoyed.

“You wanna take him into your tender arms.”

The two boys crack themselves up, and Hajime breathes out slow, tousling his fringe and really thinking it over. “It’s not… _like_ that. All physical and stuff. I mean, yeah, I do think about that… sometimes. But it’s more than that.” His eyes find Tooru again, and soften. “I just wanna be with him.”

“You’re with him literally twenty-four hours a day, eight days a week.”

“Not like that.”

Matsukawa bobs his head, understanding. “You want to call him yours, and for you to be his.”

“Something like that?” He runs a hand down his face, embarrassed once again. _“God,_ why are we even _talking_ about this?”

Hanamaki smirks. “Because I, for one, am _really_ enjoying seeing your face go through every shade of red imaginable to man. You cute little virgin, you.”

“Speak for _yourself.”_

“Who’s a virgin?” Tooru appears behind them suddenly, smiling, having finally escaped from the girls who had accosted him just as the four had been about to exit the campus grounds. They can be seen gazing after him in clear disappointment, but he simply puts one arm around Hajime and another behind the other two, and ushers them all away.

“Iwaizumi is,” Matsukawa tells him. “A downright sap-oozing, hopeless romantic.”

Tooru blinks. “That’s news to _me.”_

“Not the most observant, are you?” Hanamaki mutters under his breath, before Hajime promptly kicks him in the shin to shut him up, ignoring his outraged cry of _‘It’s my birthday!’_

“Am I missing some joke?” Tooru wants to know, frowning. “I wanna know! Don’t leave me out!”

“Iwaizumi’s the joke and you’re the punchline.”

The two snicker, while Hajime hooks one of Tooru’s arms and hastily pulls him away from their antics before they could let something slip. Tooru badgers him for about another block, plucking and prodding wherever he can reach, but it becomes apparent that Hajime is not going to budge an inch, and then Hanamaki rolls his eyes and jokes, “Hey, who’s the birthday boy around here?” so he’s forced to let it go.

They arrive at a pastry shop close to the station that they’ve all heard about, and Tooru slips forward at the counter and smiles his most charming smile to sway the waitress into giving them the quietest table in the bustling café. They get seated by a window where they can watch people go by, and they make up stories about their lives, each one becoming exceedingly more creative than the last.

Tooru smiles handsomely once again when the girl from the counter brings them their coffee, and Hajime frowns at the show of overtly flirtatious behavior as the poor worker almost spills everything on her tray before scurrying off.

When their pastries arrive, the boys burst out into a loud rendition of _happy birthday_ , startling the other patrons of the shop at first—but soon everyone starts singing along and clapping to the tune, and the waitresses come over with poppers they have for just such an occasion. Hanamaki gets up at the end and takes a very gallant bow amidst applause, trying not to smile too wide but obviously having to fight it very hard.

When they finally leave, Tooru takes just a little longer exiting the shop, then emerges with his phone in the air. “I got her number~”

“Who? The old crone who winked at you and tried to slap your butt on the way out?”

“The waitress, obviously. Saori-chan.”

He smirks, while Hajime is the first one to start down their path, his face stony and betraying no expression.

The walk home is longer than usual, since they had come so far. They take turns rubbing their fingers through Hanamaki’s hair, congratulating him for another year, until his ears have turned red from the friction. By the time Hajime and Tooru go their separate way, the sun has begun to sink beyond the horizon and everything has turned a soothing shade of orange.

Tooru is tapping away on his phone, as usual, and Hajime thinks he might be texting that waitress from before. He’s wearing the gloves Hajime had given him for Christmas.

“Say, Iwa-chan?” he suddenly speaks up, looking away from his screen. The sunset illuminates his face, makes it glow even more than usual, and Hajime can’t tell if it’s the sunbeams or his smile that is so warm and soft and golden. “Who are you a hopeless romantic for?”

And Hajime thinks that it’s not fair. It’s not fair that his best friend is so pretty and charming and aglow from the light, making his heart race. It’s not fair that he thinks he can ask this of Hajime after spending an afternoon blatantly flirting with some girl who’s now lighting up his phone. It’s not fair that Hajime can’t put blame anywhere but on himself, for always getting his fucking hopes up, again and again.

“Who do you _think,_ stupid?” he spits, and spins on his heel to storm ahead.

 

-

 

The scent of chocolate and caramel and vanilla settles permanently inside the campus, even the people within it becoming just a little bit sweeter, and Hajime realizes they’ve reached the season of gestational heartbreak. Chocolates begin arriving for Tooru as much as a week early, shoved in their mailbox or left at their front door or pushed into Tooru’s hands in between classes.

“May your face break out in a million zits and all your bacon _burn,”_ Hanamaki seethes, eyeing the dozen or so gifts he’s got in a plastic bag at his feet.

“Oikawa’s always had perfect skin no matter _what_ he eats,” Matsukawa gripes. “It’s one of his more infuriating qualities.”

“Don’t be jealous just because nobody loves you two,” Tooru laughs, in that tinkling way that could incense better men. He glances at Hajime, and his smile tightens a bit. “Well, you three.”

Hajime scoffs. It’s true he doesn’t like the holiday much, but it's because of his general distaste for chocolate, not because he wants girls to notice him or whatever else Tooru may think.

Hajime has never told any of them, but he’d received chocolate once. His first year of high school, a girl from his class had approached him on the rooftop and presented him with a small box of chocolate, admitting that she had cheered him on in volleyball matches at Kitagawa Daiichi and even come to Seijou for him. He hadn’t really known what to say, stunned by this turn of events, but she’d just laughed cheerily before he could formulate the politest way to turn her down.

“Don’t worry, Hajime-kun, I’m moving away at the end of this term,” she’d told him, her smile a little bittersweet. “That’s the only reason I had the courage to do this now. You don’t even really know me, but thank you for giving me such good memories.”

And then she had laughed, and wished him well, and said, “Please live a nice life with Oikawa-san.”

Hajime had thought that had been an odd thing to say. A part of him had wondered whether she was making fun of him, pulling a prank, the whole thing a joke. He hadn’t known, then, what he felt for his best friend.

Their apartment looks like a dumping ground by evening, bags of gift boxes littering their entrance and living room. Hajime has to move one such aside before he can plop down at the table, backpack in hand. Most of these, he knows, will go straight to Takeru. The rest of Tooru’s family would receive a few, and so would Hajime’s family, and whatever would be left after generally was divided among the volleyball team. Tooru was a boy who never turned down feelings or gifts, nor did he ever waste them.

Hajime reaches absentmindedly into his bag in search of a pen, and his hand accidentally brushes the sharp edges of crinkled plastic, curling around the chocolate he had forgotten was at the bottom. He yanks it out. It’s just a small baggie, barely the size of his palm, its lip closed up with a red twist-tie. A sales clerk had handed it to him as he passed outside a sweets shop last week, as part of a promotion, and he had accepted it in his surprise.

There are two pieces of dark chocolate inside.

“Oi, Oikawa,” he says, turning to his best friend, who’s carefully filing his nails on the sofa. “Do you want…?” His eyes land on the mountain of bags crowding their apartment, filled with sweets Tooru had received all day from girls at their campus and even those who were not, and he purses his lips. “Hm. No. Never mind.”

“What? No, tell me!” Interest piqued, he slides off the couch cushion and crawls closer, throwing himself onto Hajime’s back so he can peer over his shoulder. “What’s that in your hand?”

“It’s just… some chocolate.” He waves it about. “I totally forgot some lady gave it to me as a sampler. I thought you might want it, but that was kinda stupid. You have so much already. I’ll just toss it—”

“No, I want it!” Tooru interjects loudly. “I _really_ want it!”

His hand wraps around Hajime’s, who had been about to toss the baggie halfway across the room, and brings it down to gently uncurl his fingers and untwist the tie around the plastic, plucking the chocolate pieces from inside.

“Look, there are two of them, and two of us,” he points out, smiling genuinely.

Hajime hesitates. He doesn’t really want it—he’s really not so fond of chocolate—but Tooru seems excited to share and Hajime doesn’t even try to fool himself into believing he’s not weak to that expression on his best friend’s face. He accepts the chocolate and swallows it down, not hating it completely.

He turns back to his assignment, gets as far as dating the top corner of the page, and then pauses again.

“You’re not gonna, I don’t know, go out or something?” he realizes, looking over his shoulder. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“I can’t do that to my cute fans, Iwa-chan,” Tooru laughs, brushing bangs from his face. “I think I’ll stay in for tonight. I mean, how can I choose which ones to grace with my presence on this day, and just leave the rest out to dry?”

Hajime frowns, glaring down at the pen in his hand. Last year Tooru had gone on a record number of dates for Valentine’s. Most of them had been group dates so he could see as many of the girls at once and no one would be left out, and he’d gone from group to group, having a good time and showing _them_ a good time, before returning late at night to sleep over at Hajime’s. And this year—he had nobody special to give this day to, so he would give it to nobody at all.

“Oikawa,” Hajime says, gravely, “you have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what, Iwa-chan?”

 _“This.”_ He gestures wildly, at the mountains of chocolate boxes surrounding them. “All of this. This half-assed way of dating all these girls at once. You’re borderline stringing them along, though I know that’s not your intention.”

After the initial shock, Tooru’s face flares up in defiance. “I didn’t _ask_ anyone to give me chocolates. They gave them to me of their own will. And not _all_ of these are from girls I’ve taken out.”

“I know, _I know.”_ Hajime sighs gruffly, rubbing at the wrinkles between his brows. He sounds weary and exhausted even to his own ears. “I know that, Oikawa. But, can’t you, _just,_   _pick someone?_ Can’t you just pick the one you like most or something, and start a serious relationship for once? Instead of all these—I don’t even know what to call them. One-night stands?”

He’s quiet after that, staring down helplessly at his hands and not saying anything for once, just staring and staring and fishing for words. He looks so completely lost that it twists Hajime’s gut.

Then finally, in a faint voice, he asks, “Is that what you want, Iwa-chan? Do you want me to get with a nice girl, and settle down with her, and give her my whole life?”

He’s earnestly searching his face, looking for any sign of— _something._

Hajime carefully peels back the stray bangs stuck to his forehead, smoothing them back into place with his thumb, and tells him, “I just want you to stop playing around with your own feelings.”

 

-

 

Tooru goes out with Saori-chan three times in the following month, setting a record for himself. They go to the planetarium, the art museum, and a café on the other side of town where they play with cats as they sip their coffee. She thinks aliens are cool, wants to work for a non-profit charity when she’s older, and picks up on the rules of volleyball lightning fast. And she’s exceptionally pretty, not dulled at all next to Tooru’s sparkle.

“Chill, dude, you’ve been on like three dates,” Hanamaki says, rolling his eyes. “You’re talking like you’re gonna marry the girl.”

“Hmm, well, who knows?” Tooru grins loopily. “I just might!”

Hajime keeps his focus steadfast on his assignment and doesn’t return the stare he can feel burning into his back.

Matsukawa’s birthday creeps up on them quietly, bringing with it the first signs of Spring. Hanamaki borrows a projector from the school’s film department, and the old Seijou team gathers at their small, cozy apartment to celebrate a new age for both Matsukawa and Yahaba. Laid out on cushions and blankets, they first watch some murder mystery that Yahaba’s been wanting to see, then switch to match videos, and finally the recording they had made at the test of courage during their last training camp, when Kunimi had accidentally wandered off the trail and Kindaichi had become _convinced_ he’d been taken by ghosts.

Tooru brings Saori-chan. They sit in the back of the room, and Tooru holds out an arm so she can sit all tucked up nicely against his side, and they giggle whenever the Tooru on screen tries to convince his teammates that Kunimi hadn’t been lost to ghosts, but _aliens._

Hajime has never seen Tooru _with_ a girl before, when he’s on a date or not engaged in some ridiculous show of flirtation. He looks— _good_ —when he’s being a doting boyfriend.

The school year ends after that, and another one begins.

Tooru goes on five more dates with Saori-chan, gushing about each one after to his three unwilling audience members, and things slowly fall into a routine. Hanamaki and Matsukawa send him pitying looks now and then, calling him a damn, foolish masochist when he insists this is what he wanted, that he’d been the one to push Tooru to date more seriously, that Saori-chan would be good for him.

Then he comes home one evening laden with groceries, and the apartment is completely dark and silent even though he had left Tooru here poring over his books. He creeps carefully into the living room, reaching for a light—then hears hushed tones.

“Let me explain. _Please.”_

_“I don’t need to hear your excuses.”_

“It’s not… like _that_ …”

Then Hajime hears static, and lots of inaudible words at once, and that’s Saori-chan’s voice and it sounds like she says _'y_ _ou were never looking at me'_ except he can’t make it out so well.

Finally, he flicks on a light. Tooru stares back at him, cocooned in a blanket, eyes red-rimmed and looking so tired. He’s holding his phone in his hand, though the call has been disconnected, when he tells him, “Saori-chan dumped me.”

His voice sounds muted like he’s got a bad cold, and Hajime feels like he’s going to throw up, seeing him like this.

“I really tried hard this time, Iwa-chan. I _really_ did.”

“I… I know you did, Oikawa.” With a sigh, he collapses on the couch behind him, thinking about putting a hand on Tooru’s shoulder but then deciding against it. Just being here feels like enough.

Tooru isn’t better the next day, or the next. He trails around the apartment wrapped up in his blanket, a tail sagging behind him, and won’t eat the soup Hajime makes or the milk bread he brings him from the corner store. He won’t even shave or style his hair or spend hours on his skincare like he loves to do; all he wants to do is watch match videos late into the night until he falls asleep on the floor.

Hajime is forced to call in reinforcements.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa burst in not even an hour later, and both prod Tooru’s lifeless form with a toe and recoil.

“Dude, you _reek._ When was the last time you showered?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We were looking for our friend Oikawa. Have you seen him, Mr. Tarzan?”

Tooru glares at them both, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “What are you two gremlins doing in my apartment?”

“Do you hear him? We’ve been like _brothers_ to him for four goddamn years! And now it’s ‘my apartment’ this and ‘gremlins’ that.”

“Can’t believe I ever shared my cream puffs with this rude guy.”

Tooru seems to consider this, then slowly sits up. Folding his legs under himself, he gazes up looking like he’s a little lost and tells them, “Saori-chan dumped me.”

“We heard.” Hanamaki gets down to his level, then throws an arm around his shoulders to give him a reassuring shake. “Don’t you worry, buddy. We’re gonna play some video games, and make some chamomile tea or some soothing shit like that, do a sheet mask if you want, and you’ll be back to being your usual obnoxious, stroke-inducing self in no time. _After_ you shower, of course.”

There’s a pause in the room. Tooru fiddles with his blanket, seeming to mull over the proposition, then cautiously relents. “I could be persuaded to do that.”

 _“Atta boy.”_ Matsukawa reaches out a hand to help him get to his feet. “Now you go in that bathroom, and you don’t come back out until you’re back to being your _annoyingly_ beautiful self, you hear me?”

He disappears behind the cream-colored door, trading in his blanket for a change of clothes, and Hajime approaches the two friends once he’s sure they’re alone.

“Thanks, you two. I tried a lot of things, but…” He bites back a frown by gnawing on his lip, glaring at the floor. He had been _useless._

Hanamaki claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man. This isn’t a job for just one person.”

“Besides, you did your time for twenty long years.”

They mock-salute him, and he gives them both an affectionate shove.

Tooru returns from the bathroom later, freshly showered and shaved and his hair slicked back. He’s wearing an old, faded Seijou sweatshirt that used to be Hajime’s but had gotten stretched out when he’d begun to bulk up. The four switch on a game console and spend hours shooting at NPCs, wearing Tooru’s favorite avocado mask and sipping peppermint tea since it was all they could find in the kitchen.

“Hey, Mattsun? Call me beautiful again!”

“Hm? What’s that? I don’t remember saying any such thing, Mr. Alien Creature from Planet Tooru’s Ass.”

_“Mean!”_

Hanamaki laughs so hard his character gets sliced up by ninja swords when he’s not looking, and they end up losing the level. But Tooru nestles his head in Hajime’s lap and can’t stop smiling as they restart the game, life and glimmer returning to his eyes.

That’s day three.

On day four, Hajime spies Saori-chan across the campus. Her eyes are red-rimmed and look tired, and she doesn’t have the usual color in her cheeks. Hajime doesn’t know much about dating, so he wonders if it’s normal for someone to cry so much when they had been the one to end things.

 

-

 

Hajime drinks for the very first time together with Tooru, on Tooru’s birthday.

It’s another one of those quiet evenings. Hanamaki and Matsukawa had come by earlier with a cake and apologies, explaining that they couldn’t spend the day because their parents were coming to visit. Tooru had endured exactly five birthday noogies before finally kicking them out, attempting to fix his ruined hair in the TV reflection. Hajime had run down to the convenience store with his newly minted ID, and had brought back two packs of beer (and some gummy worms, at Tooru’s command).

They sit facing each other across the living room table, then tap their beers in a toast and take their first sip together.

Tooru immediately pulls it away, making a face. “It’s _disgusting.”_

Hajime takes another cautious sip, then shrugs and takes a full swig. It’s cool and bitter going down his throat, but he likes it.

Tooru rips open his gummy worms package and sucks one into his mouth, hoping to cover the taste. “That’s a letdown that was twenty years in the making.”

“‘S not so bad if you don’t really think too hard about the taste.” Hajime shrugs. “Drink enough for that buzz to kick in. That’s supposed to be worth it.”

Tooru seems unconvinced, but lets himself be coaxed into drinking more, punctuating every few sips with another gummy worm. Hajime enjoys watching him pull faces, and he seems to realize, because suddenly each one is uglier than before until Hajime knocks his head and says _stupid_ in this soft, affectionate tone. At the bottom of their first bottles, Hajime smirks in a challenging way until Tooru can’t resist accepting a second.

“Joke’s on you, Iwa-chan. I don’t feel _anything,”_ he insists halfway down, struggling to put his mouth on the lip of his bottle.

Hajime grins to himself. Somehow he’d had a feeling Tooru would be a lightweight; for all his pretend grandeur, he’s delicate on the inside. He pretends he’s not drunk, just as he pretends his cheek doesn’t twitch any time someone mentions Saori-chan. He hasn’t been on a date in three months, and his phone is always still buzzing but he doesn’t rush to answer it as he used to. It’s as if the end of his second relationship had reversed all the effects of the first—but Hajime knows better than to let his guard down.

“Are you sure this is enough?” he asks, and at Tooru’s confused stare, elaborates, “For your birthday.”

“Of _course,_ Iwa-chan, I’ve always, _always_ been looking forward to this.” He sloppily tries to push stray hairs out of his face, taking a few tries more than normal. His smile is hazy but genuine. “You know, most guys can’t wait to be old enough to drink with their fathers. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to drink together with Iwa-chan.”

Hajime swallows the burn in his throat, touched.

 _“Shh._ Don’t let my father know.” Tooru winks.

He chuckles, promising he wouldn’t before smiling into his next sip.

“Didn’t you have things you were looking forward to doing with me too, Iwa-chan?” He’s got that earnest look in his eyes again, like he’s waiting to hear something he’s been dreaming of. It’s not any less intense behind that slightly unfocused gaze.

He could joke, but instead he decides to be truthful and sincere for Tooru’s birthday. “I couldn’t wait to live together like this.”

The way he gets all wide-eyed and awed at that, like a ghost of the starry-eyed kid he used to be, is the most fucking endearing thing Hajime’s ever seen. _“Really?”_

“Yeah.” He takes a swig. “I know we said… Back then, when we weren’t sure about the future and everything. We said we’d go to separate universities and play on separate teams and beat each other if it came to it. But I hoped.”

He feels he’s been generous enough with his words already, but Tooru is staring at him with his lips slightly parted, breathing shallow, waiting to hear more. Hajime clears his throat, loudly.

“I was always preparing, in a way. Like, my mom would send me out for groceries, and I’d be standing there looking at vegetables and thinking to myself, ‘I’ll have to make sure to keep a lot in the house, because Oikawa always forgets he needs to eat these when he’s obsessed over his serve.’ Or I’d be vacuuming and thinking about how I’m gonna be the one stuck doing it every time when we live together. Little things like that.” He frowns. “And then you said… Well, before Spring High you mentioned you might go somewhere far away for university, somewhere that scouted you. And that was the first time… I guess it never occurred to me until you said it that we might not stay together.”

Tooru swallows a few times, his breathing picking up speed and looking like the room is spinning. But he doesn’t seem happy to hear such sweet words, not at all. He’s frowning. “Iwa-chan. Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Stop being so nice to me.” He looks almost angry, his mouth pinched. “Stop… _flirting_ with me all the time. Stop treating me like I mean the world to you and then taking it all back. You’re not fair, Iwa-chan.”

 _“Me?”_ Hajime gapes, absolutely stunned. _“Me,_ stop flirting with _you?”_

Anyone in the world could see it’s the other way around—that Tooru is always leaning in close and putting his head in Hajime’s lap and thumbing food off the corner of Hajime’s mouth to put it in his own. It’s Tooru who goes out on dates and comes back with this intense look in his eyes as he searches Hajime’s face, unaware of the effect it has on his best friend. Tooru likes stealing Hajime’s food and wearing his old sweatshirts and smiling at him with the sunset as his backdrop and telling him he’s handsome when he least expects it.

Tooru’s mouth trembles. “You’re always doing that, Iwa-chan. You’re always putting your fingers in my hair, or wrapping your scarf around me, or giving me roses. You’re always saying things that make me _so_ _confused_ , and then telling me to get serious with girls.”

They sit there, in silence, looking at each other like they’re facing off instead of sharing a beer and celebrating a birthday. Hajime can feel his gut twisting, the way it does often for any and all things that have Tooru involved, like that day at the amusement park when they had come to a stop on the planetarium ride and he had looked beside him to see Tooru looking _enchanted_. He’d been pretty enchanted himself.

“Don’t you get _why_ I was never serious, Iwa-chan?” Tooru shakes his head, face crumpled into frustration and desperation and—and something else. Disappointment, maybe. “No, Iwa-chan, you just don’t _get it.”_

He manages to make himself speak, but his voice comes out thick. “Explain it to me, then.”

Tooru gives him a long, searching look. “Saori-chan asked me to spend the weekend.”

Hajime’s elbow almost slips off the table, he’s so shocked. _“What._ But you two—are you back…?”

“No, Iwa-chan, no. I mean, that day that she… when she dumped me.” He rubs his eyes, and breathes out shakily. “She asked me to come spend the weekend at her place. And I, I said I couldn’t do that. ‘Because Iwa-chan would be lonely.’ That’s what I told her. And she thought that was weird. Weird that I’d be worried about a thing like that about a guy who’s just a friend, and when it would just be for a couple of days.”

He frowns suddenly at the memory, lost within it. “I didn’t like that. I didn’t like how she said ‘just a friend’ like she could just sum it up like that when she didn’t know _anything_ about you and me. So I said, ‘Iwa-chan’s not just a friend. He’s my best friend.’ And she, she said—well, she didn’t say anything for a while, I almost thought she hung up—but then she said, ‘Is that all he is?’”

Tooru looks up then, looks right up into Hajime’s eyes with his own that are now turning red around the rims and have looked tired for months now. “And she asked me, ‘Why are you always looking at him?’”

Hajime doesn’t say a thing, feeling like Tooru’s put a spell on him with his words and he can’t do more than just _sit there_ , watch his best friend keep pulling at his hair and spilling his heart, and his mind is screaming at him to _do something, say something, anything,_ but he’s too taken in by everything Tooru is saying.

“She said, ‘That night, on your friend’s birthday, you looked at him more than you looked at me.’ And, you know, Iwa-chan? When we went to the planetarium, I told her all about how we both saw Saturn through a telescope together. And at the art museum, I found a painting that looked like those weird bugs you used to collect when we were kids. And at the café, I told her, ‘Iwa-chan loves cats so much, I should bring him next time.’”

“And then she dumped me, and she said… _God,_ she said the same thing that Fuyumi-chan said. My first girlfriend. You remember her, Iwa-chan?”

“The one who said you were too obsessed with volleyball,” he replies, automatically.

Tooru shakes his head, and he looks sad. “But that wasn’t it, Iwa-chan. She _loved_ me when I played volleyball. But then she suddenly broke everything off, and I asked her why, and she—she told me... ‘Because you’re too obsessed with Iwaizumi.’”

The entire apartment goes still—the air and the noise and the people within it.

Hajime realizes his beer’s gotten warm; there are droplets slipping through the condensation, making his fingers feel sticky. He has the sudden urge to wipe them on his clothes, or to thread them through Tooru’s.

“She said it was too much pressure, being with me, because she felt I could never love anyone the way I love you,” he adds, though his voice is muted now, hollow. “And, I don’t know, Iwa-chan. I just wanted to prove her wrong, I guess, she acted like I was so goddamn _weird._ So I tried going out with a bunch of people, but they always wanted to do things with me, kiss me and take me to bed. And then I’d tell them I couldn’t do that because I had already promised myself to someone else, even if they didn’t know it yet.” He laughs, suddenly, but it’s mirthless. _“God,_ Akane-chan was so pissed. Well, they all were. But she was most, because I was the one who chased her.”

And then Saori-chan had said the exact same thing that had started this all, made him realize that all his efforts had been useless, that no matter how many girls he took out he would always be thinking of Hajime, wanting to be near Hajime, _obsessed_ with Hajime.

He wrings his hands, suddenly anxious and afraid. “I-I’ll move out, Iwa-chan, if you want me to—”

“Oikawa.”

He says this calmly, and strangely enough, he’s peaceful through and through. He slowly sets down his drink, wipes his fingers on his T-shirt, then picks up a gummy worm and flicks it right at Tooru’s face. It bounces off his nose, and he recoils.

_“Iwa-chan!”_

“Who do you think I’m a hopeless romantic for?” he asks.

“Can’t be _me._ You don’t throw gummies at people you love,” Tooru gripes, dabbing a napkin with his tongue before wiping the sticky residue from his skin.

Hajime grins boyishly. “Do you give them roses, then? Do you share Valentine’s chocolate with them? Make them soup when they don’t feel good and buy them the biggest pack of gummy worms you can find?” _Look at them and see galaxies, and think that they’re beautiful?_

Tooru breathes in, eyes wide, looking like he hardly dares to believe it as he searches every line of Hajime’s face with his hard gaze. And Hajime realizes he’s always been doing that— _looking_ at him, doing calculations in his head, dissecting his expressions and his words and his heart, too afraid to be the first to say it and find out he’s unloved in return. He’s been waiting and waiting for Hajime, just as Hajime’s been waiting and waiting for him.

He ekes out, daringly hopeful, “… _Me?”_

And Hajime could wax poetic, spill his heart like Tooru had done, tell him every moment he had looked upon his best friend and wished he was his, aching to put his head in his lap and thread fingers through his hair and look up at the stars with him every night for as many nights as they would both ever have.

But he just closes his eyes, and confesses, simply, “It’s always been only you.”

 

-

 

Hajime wakes feeling exceptionally warm and snug, but like something is prickling at his skin. Stretching in his semi-dazed state, he turns over on his mattress and faces Tooru asleep on the pillow next to him, and feels a sleepy smile break out across his face. Before he can drift off again, he’s drawn to the shadows on his door—and there stand Matsukawa and Hanamaki, mouths agape.

He bolts awake.

“Wow, are you two _finally_ fucking together now?”

“My innocent, virgin eyes, _oh my god._ I think their boners were touching.”

“We were _just sleeping,”_ Hajime insists, but his face has turned so crimson that his words are a little hard to believe.

Tooru, who had rolled over unceremoniously when the mattress had jumped, frowns in his sleep and slowly pries open his eyes. He spies Hanamaki and Matsukawa hovering over their bed, but doesn’t seem to regard them as a threat the way Hajime had.

“Are you angels?” he asks, smiling hazily.

Hanamaki snorts. “Do I _look_ like I've got wings and a diaper on?”

“I don’t see any wings, but the diaper is a very real possibility—!”

He dodges the kick to his head, just barely missing it by colliding into Hajime’s chest. The air gets knocked out of him, or whatever had not already been expelled from his lungs from laughing so hard.

“Un-fucking- _believable._ This guy was pretending to be asleep but really trying to think up ways he could be his _most_ obnoxious self first thing in the morning.”

“When did this happen anyway?” Matsukawa asks suspiciously, eyeing the two on the bed as Tooru kicks off the blanket to reveal he’s only wearing boxers, as opposed to Hajime’s shirtless torso. He has to look away. _“Ugh.”_

“Hmm.” Tooru beams. “Last week?”

“One whole week and you didn’t _tell us?”_

“I’m hurt. We’ve been here every step of the way, indulging all the goddamn _drama_ with the patience of _saints._ I swear, you two are the most insufferable teenage boys to _exist.”_

“That’s debatable,” Hajime grumbles under his breath, glaring at them both. “How did you two get in here anyway?”

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Gotta fix that bad habit, or something worse than gremlins might wander in.”

Hajime leaps off the bed, and it takes much pushing and prodding to finally toss the two out into the hall so they can change. Tooru climbs out after him, smile full of mischief when he slinks up close enough to press Hajime against the door, hands coming up to rest on his shoulder blades. He presses his thumbs into them, moving them in lazy circles, nose dragging up Hajime’s neck.

Hajime wrestles with the embarrassment pooling in his stomach. This, he’s learning, is going to take getting used to. It’s one thing looking at the boy he’s spent his life with and realizing he never wants to leave his side. It’s another to have his skin rubbing against his own, being looked at with open desire and explored with nimble fingers.

“Iwa-chan, good morning,” Tooru murmurs.

Hajime means to answer, but two voices interrupt them through the door.

“No getting naughty in there, you two!”

“Remember, training camp starts in a couple days. What are you gonna get done with sore asses?”

 _“Oh, my god, get out of our apartment!”_ Hajime barks through the door, shoving Tooru off to the side so he can kick open the door and catch his snickering teammates with their ears pressed to it. Cracking his knuckles menacingly, he threatens, “I’m gonna crack your skulls together.”

“That probably wouldn’t hurt as much as you think. I mean, Issei’s hair is so thick and luxurious—”

Hanamaki is the first to be put into a headlock, and it takes the combined strengths of both Tooru and Matsukawa to pry them apart. Hajime gets shooed into the bathroom to shower first, to help cool his head and hopefully wipe the murder from his face. He’s reluctantly persuaded to make them breakfast when he returns, and by the time the four have gathered around the table, the atmosphere is amiable enough again that the two boys feel it safe to make kissy faces at Hajime and get nothing more than a rewarding dash of red on his cheeks in return.

“Cut it out,” he snaps. “I mean, we haven’t…”

“Smooshed booties?” Hanamaki offers.

“Not _just_ that.” He harrumphs, stabbing at his vegetables. “I mean, any of it.”

“Iwa-chan wants to go slow,” Tooru informs them, rolling his eyes. He’s more focused on his limp bangs than his breakfast. “As if we can get any slower than a twenty years long mating ritual.”

“And sharing the same bed is going slow?”

“Iwa-chan really likes to cuddle,” Tooru tells them. “I don’t even remember what my bed looks like anymore, or if I even have one.”

Hajime pointedly turns red, then begins piling vegetables on Tooru’s bowl of rice to cover it up, making sure to include plenty of carrots because he knows they’re his favorite. When Tooru had been nine and needed to get glasses and begun crying, his mother had told him he should have eaten his carrots at dinner because they were good for eyesight; he’s loved them since then, as if he hopes eating enough would reverse the damage that had already occurred.

Tooru puts down the spoon he had been using as his personal mirror and picks up his chopsticks instead, though not before blowing Hajime a grateful kiss, then high-fiving Hanamaki and Matsukawa when he bypasses red to tinge crimson instead.

Hajime wonders aloud what sin he’d committed in his past life to fall in love with such a dumbass in this one.

They’re free of classes, and practice for the day, so the four boys decide to take a bus to the outskirts of the city and hike up a small mountain trail, away from civilization. It’s cooler here, under the shade of hanging trees and other foliage, and quieter too, save for the chirping birds and the annoying calls of Hanamaki and Matsukawa teasing Tooru and Hajime for holding hands.

They come across a small clearing with a clear stream running along it, and decide to stop here. Stripping off their shorts and T-shirts, they spend the day swimming in the water and diving for rocks and racing towards the big boulder in the distance. Afterwards, they sit under a tree and open up the lunch they had packed together, letting the sunlight evaporate the droplets sticking to their skin.

They return to the city before the sun sets, but spend the evening lounging on a bench outside a convenience store, lapping at soft-serve ice-cream and tossing bread crumbs at grounded crows.

“All joking aside,” Matsukawa says, suddenly, “we’re really happy for you guys.”

Hanamaki claps them both on the back, grinning. “As long as we don’t have to walk in on you two _getting too happy,_ if you catch my drift.”

“The simple solution to _that,”_ Hajime spits, “is that you two stop barging into our place all the time like you own it.”

 _“Or._ I notice Oikawa said he’s not using his room anymore? I mean, if it’s up for grabs, we could just move right in.”

Their matching faces of abject horror promptly end all discussion on the possibility.

A crow takes flight, and the four boys get to their feet, realizing night had blanketed them without a warning. They reach their fork in the road but no one really wants to separate, so they order takeout to Tooru and Hajime’s place and try to beat it there, tripping over each other when it spontaneously becomes a race and laughing all the way home.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa end up spending the night after all, taking over Tooru’s room once the takeout boxes have been cleared away and they realize it would be more accurate to say it’s early morning than late night.

“Don’t get used to it,” Hajime warns them, darkly, as he moves to join Tooru in his own room.

Hanamaki flutters his eyelashes in his direction, the picture of innocence. _“Aww,_ you’d miss us if we were gone.”

And Hajime loathes to admit it, but he really would.

 

-

 

Hajime likes having Tooru’s head in his lap. He likes him smiling cheerily and humming something off-tune under his breath, foot swaying to his own music as he’s preoccupied with meticulously checking each nail he had filed. It reminds Hajime of the first time he had ever seen Tooru like this, all soft and golden, and realized he never wanted them to part.

“Careful, Iwa-chan.” Tooru meets his eyes suddenly, mischief in his own. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re _finally_ ready to kiss me now.”

Hajime threads his fingers into Tooru’s hair, and smirks. “Who says I’m not?”

He leans down.

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> recently i rewatched the anime and the s2 seijou loss hit me _really hard_ ;v; i teared up so bad my sister came into my room and gave me a hug (/is embarrassed). i wanted to write something fun to feel better, which apparently means lots of makki and mattsun ahaha. it still became this long, pine-y mess, but it's iwaoi and i feel that's just a little inevitable when it comes to them.
> 
> i'm not so good at writing witty characters (i'm probably the only person in the world who thinks i'm funny, whelp) or even dialogue-heavy scenes, so i hope this came out all right.
> 
> thank you for reading! C:


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